


Red Light

by tzigane, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: AU, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzigane/pseuds/tzigane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last time Gil had seen this much blood in a hotel room, there had been a pair of serial killers in Las Vegas.</p><p>It was possible that they had at least one now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Light

The last time Gil had seen this much blood in a hotel room, there had been a pair of serial killers in Las Vegas.

It was possible that they had at least one now.

He paused in the doorway as David looked up over the edge of his glasses. "Sorry about the body placement. The one underneath him was actually alive when they were found," he apologized, and Gil could imagine that the second victim probably wouldn't live through whatever it was.

"Hey, Super Dave. Livin' come before the dead. No reason to apologize," Nick said from behind Gil as he stepped into the room. Jim cleared his throat, stepping into Gil's line of view. It was a pretty upscale hotel suite, all things considered, so he expected someone was likely to remember who'd been in and out.

"Two victims," the homicide detective told him. "The one we've got here is Will Kensington. His twin brother's downstairs waiting to talk to you. He's the one that called it in. Says he just knew something was wrong." The glance Jim shot his way said it all. "Second victim's a Greg Sanders."

The name hit Gil with all the force of a punch, a tremor workings it way through him. Greg Sanders. It told him everything he needed to know. It told him what they were dealing with and it told him what the police would find out if Greg Sanders survived and told them what was going on.

Gil let his eyes drift over the scene, taking it in. "Kensington must have been well off. Greg Sanders is an 'escort'."

"So's Will Kensington." Jim was looking at him, and Gil knew he'd have to explain that later. "Room's not in either of their names. It's rented out to a Thomas Kensington. Problem is? He's a dead guy."

"Dead guy related to one of the escorts?" Nick asked, and he was looking at Gil, too, curiosity marked in the slant of his eyebrows.

Gil knew he'd have to explain it later. On one hand, that was professionally uncomfortable of him -- and on the other hand, most of his coworkers knew that there was nothing that could be out of the ordinary for Gil Grissom. Bargaining with homeless people to get evidence back, dancing circles around a dominatrix, hitting on attractive little people. Coffee with an escort wasn't out of the ordinary.

"Or someone who likes to hire escorts under an assumed name."

"Or somebody who's got a grudge," Jim suggested. "There's a guy downstairs with the other Kensington brother. We'll look into him first." As much as it seemed to go against nature, family was often the first answer. They were usually the first on the scene, and first on the scene equaled first suspect, so.... "Got a guy out at Desert Palms with the other victim. C'mon through here. You'll wanna see things even if we had to move the, ah, other escort."

That gruesome, then, Gil could guess. He moved to wander along with Jim into the scene itself, eyes scanning before things started, looking for anything not in the direct scene that could end up being part of the scene. Crime tended not to stop at the doorway, and the blood trail leading towards the hall implied that it was going to be messy. Very messy, as it turned out, and the fact that Gil knew someone who had been part of that massive blood pool spreading out over the king-sized bed made his stomach rise uncomfortably.

No.

It wasn't just that he knew someone. It was that it was Greg, who was all smiles, and fast fluttering hands, and Percocet addiction. Greg, who had burn scars crawling in patterns over his back that he wouldn't answer questions about, who didn't quite have an undergraduate chemistry degree.

"Whoa." Even Nick's voice seemed thick. "You mean to tell me there's a guy that survived this?"

Jim shook his head. "Yeah, well, it's moderately questionable at the moment how long survived is gonna last."

"He'd be our most useful witness. Let's hope it lasts for a long time." And that a single homicide didn't suddenly become a double, because Gil couldn't quite pinpoint the last time that he'd seen Greg -- three weeks, maybe four -- but he could remember that he'd been healthy, and looking well, better than he had when Gil had first run into him. A little more weight on and a little less flutter in his hands, a little more like he wasn't so very badly in the throes of his drug of choice, and for everything to end like that...

Gil closed his eyes for a moment, and then glanced at the body that was flopped out beside the blood pool. "Nicky, start taking photos of him. I want the body processed and heading towards autopsy ASAP."

He could start looking for trace while Nick did that, or he could call Warrick, switch cases with him. It would probably be the right thing, recusing himself on the grounds that he knew one of the participants. He hadn't recused himself with Heather, and look where that had gotten him. On the other hand, he wanted to help Greg. Wanted to be the one who came up with the right answer, wanted him to be safe and... and not dead.

If he couldn't manage that, then he wanted Greg's killer in jail. As personally close to it as he could get was collecting evidence for it, so there was no reason for the faintly lost feeling of helplessness that was floating over him as he shined his flashlight over the naked, mutilated body. Knife wounds. Maybe Greg was still alive because he'd had the buffer of someone else's body on top of his.

Maybe whoever it was had just taken longer.

"Hey, Griss?" Nick paused, camera in his hands, and then it flashed, blinding light crossing that flesh. "Look here. I got something, some kinda pattern cut here on the left side...."

Gil moved to that side of the bed, eyes drifting over the body. He had blood on his toenails, marring a clear coat of polish. French manicure on his toes. He'd been pretty in life, and he apparently took outward care of his source of income. Gil wondered if the brother had the same occupation, or if it was going to be good son bad son.

Stylized lines flowed, the cuts not quite bloodless, but not clotted, either. Post-mortem, then, Gil figured, artistic sort of lily of the valley, all curves and a few flowing lines.

"Some kinda flower," Nick said, leaning down to get a closer shot. It had been cleaned off before they ever got there, Gil thought, the spatter probably from getting Greg out from under Will. "Pen knife, maybe?"

"Or something sharper. I'll look at it in the autopsy." Something delicate, maybe. A carving knife. Once the blood was washed away, it would become more obvious when their victim didn't seem to be painted with his own bodily fluids.

Gil lifted his own camera and took a shot of the lily. Lily of the valley, botanically known as Convallaria. "They signify a return to happiness," Gil murmured, tilting his head to the side. "Usually used by brides. The significance here is..." Spring. Youth, maybe. They were usually kept in cool, shaded places, fragrant pale white bell-shaped flowers that had to be treated carefully or they would die.

"Death?" Nick guessed. It made Gil want to sigh and snap a picture of Nick's face head on so he'd be blinking spots from his eyes for days.

"Fragility, beauty, care -- maybe some kind of mark of caring possession. He has a signature, and it's going to be more than a flower." Corpse flowers, Amorphophallus, and Gil needed to stop free associating in his head at scenes.

David cleared his throat. "Or maybe he just likes killing rent boys and wants you to know he did it, not somebody else. Sort of like a gay Jack the Ripper except with less organ removal."

Gil twisted his head slowly, peering at David. "The definition of a signature style serial killer is a serial killer who leaves a mark so that everyone knows its the same person doing it over and over again. What was liver temp?"

"Ninety-two point five," David said, clearing his throat. "So, sometime around three, which is consistent with what the other victim seemed to think. He was a little confused."

"I'm surprised he was speaking." All that blood. How could a victim of that be anything other than a little confused? Gil leaned forwards, peering at the wound. There was something in the wound, but he'd leave that for Al or he'd get it later. "Nick, you have the overalls?"

"Uh-huh. Got everything I can around the body anyway. Need to get a few more shots around the bed. Super Dave, he's all yours," Nick offered, stepping back from them. "Griss, I'll check the bathroom and the sitting room when I'm done with the pics."

"Thank you." Bathrooms were rich for evidence, cleanup and disposals and discarded weapons left behind like the discarded people on the bed. Gil straightened up, and took a step backwards, his mind filling in the holes where the second 'body' had been.

He just wished it wasn't smiling at him in his mind, a bright toothy smile.

~*~*~*~

Iantine Kensington was small, unassuming, and identical to his dead brother six floors up. It was at least moderately disturbing to Gil to see the dead made animate; identical twins often made him feel that way, as if the world was slightly tilted in a direction he couldn't make full sense of.

"No. There was no one. I mean, Will was...." The hands fluttered, same French manicure, same motions Greg made in their own way. "We were never formally adopted. Thomas... Thomas, that was our brother. Thomas loved us, our mother loved us, but we had relatives who...."

Relatives. Gil could fill the rest of that sentence in, a possible litany of abuse that had made it easy for two boys to turn to that line of 'work'. There was always something, some moment where people crossed the line or were pushed. Jim talked about people turning a trick to make rent money, taking a hit of something to turn that first trick, and then just turning tricks to get the next hit.

Jim tended to be pretty gallant about hookers and escorts, and Gil could only guess what Ellie was out in the world doing. "And how long has Thomas been dead?"

Watching that face tilt downwards, full of sorrow, made him understand Jim just a little. Greg made him understand Jim, actually, and made him understand this boy more than he liked. "We were fourteen the year he died," Iantine murmured, looking up at him with a sad smile. "We didn't have anywhere to go except to an old man with a crazy name and... it didn't work out so well." Gil could guess what that meant. "That was six years ago.

Six years was a long time to be doing what they did and to still seem so... so pretty. Like Greg. Not completely ravaged, and that implied that somewhere, someone might be taking care of them at least a little. A pimp or someone who preferred his merchandise to at least appear clean.

"The man who killed your brother used Thomas's name for the room," Gil told him quietly. "How many people know you now, and know your brother's name?"

The fluttering wideness of those eyes spoke louder than his voice, dark pupils not contracting in the light even though they were barely discernible from the iris. He was high, and Gil knew it, but now wasn't the time. "I don't know. Most people, I guess. We, um." He shifted unconsciously. "Most people who know us. Will, Will was the one who always mentioned him. Thomas, I mean. But most everybody. Thomas was...." He shook his head. "Thomas was everything."

Thomas, long dead and better than what had happened since, had been idolized and raised onto a pedestal. "Where do you live, Iantine? Where were you before you thought there was something wrong with your brother?"

"Here and there." Here and there translated to whatever cheap place they could get for the night. Gil knew it because Greg had spent a night or two on his couch, and offered to pay him for it the only way he could. The twins were probably the same. "We don't have a house or an apartment or anything. Um, we have Thomas's car, the old one. Nobody wanted it because it wasn't worth anything, just this old Buick Skylark. Some nights, we sleep there. I was in the back seat trying to get some sleep and I felt...." Whatever he had felt, it left him tinged green and shaking. "So bad. I only feel like that when Will's in trouble and I...."

Called the police. "All right." All right, and Gil had to think about it, think about what to ask next because while he knew he was working towards solving a case, he was going to trip up on the victims this time. Maybe he did need to pass the case on to someone else. "What did you do next?" No more filling in words.

"We were with Greg this morning. Greg's the other..." That wave of hands came again, accompanied by a steady flicker of mouth-dampening tongue. "We were having coffee and we said he had an appointment here, someone who wanted two of us, and I was... I was just too tired." Or too high or too used.

And he'd slept in the car instead. "Do you know where Greg usually stays? Does he have any other friends you know? Did your brother have any friends you knew about?"

"We have each other." Iantine gave him a funny, tilted smile, and Gil could almost see the way all of them should have been. The way they should have been and weren't. "When you've got brothers, you don't need anybody else." Plural. Brothers, both of whom were dead, and Greg, who might be by the time Gil got out of there. "Greg... Greg stays with us sometimes or with this older guy he really likes a lot. That's only been a couple of times," Iantine noted, "but he was really happy about it. Sometimes, tricks pay for the place the whole night and go home when they're done and you can stay in the room, or we can find a cheap place and stay all together if just one of us gets a room. There's this other guy Greg likes. Blond, you know, like Billy Idol blond. He's bitchy, though. Will didn't like him. Um. Darius? I think his name is Darius."

"Do you know where either of them live?" He phrased it that way because Jim was in earshot, even if Jim was talking to the manager and trying to get tapes, security tapes. They'd need copies, and maybe they could get a good picture of the man going in with the two young men.

Iantine shook his head slowly. "No. No. Darius... Sometimes he has coffee with us. The man Greg likes... He has something...." Whatever the living twin was on seemed to make him drift. "Something... some kind of pet. Greg likes it."

The tarantula. If Greg was going to make it through it, Gil would have to bring him by the hospital. He did seem to have a fascination with a furry insect. "All right. You're going to need to give a statement to the officer over there in a few minutes. Afterwards, I want you to get in your car and if you're going to sleep in it, park in high traffic, well lit areas, okay? If you remember anything about the man your brother and Greg were with, please tell the officer."

"Okay." Iantine nodded, a tentative, childish motion. "You'll find him? You won't... Will, he..."

"We're going to do our very best to find the man who killed your brother." And hopefully Iantine would stay calm and subdued with the police, so he could return to... what very little was left in his life now. It made Gil's head ache, and maybe other integral body parts, mostly in his chest.

Gil stood up, and turned his attention away from Iantine.

"Mr. Grissom?" There was a hand on his wrist, tugging gently, and the cop that was with Gil shifted, uncomfortable with the touch. "Mr. Grissom? Will you keep Greg safe?"

Keep Greg safe because no one had done that for any of them that Gil could tell, and he was softhearted enough that he hated the thought of it. What could he say? "I'm sure he'll be back on the streets in no time' didn't seem right. Maybe he could apply for some kind of rehab grant for Greg. If he wasn't dead already. "I will."

That seemed to be enough to settle the boy -- boy, because he was tiny, like his brother, and young, no matter how old his eyes screamed him to be. He nodded and sat back down and the policeman shifted his attention back to Gil as if to ask what he should do with him.

"Take his statement," Gil told the man patiently. "And then give him a ride down to the morgue after that so he can officially ID his brother." Push the autopsy back a little if they had to. "Otherwise, he's free and clear."

And unfortunately, Gil knew where he'd be able to poke around to find Iantine if they had to. Greg, it seemed, shared his addictions. Have some Perc. Want some coffee? The questions were almost a voice spoken aloud for him, the memory of a smile and hands that shook, arms that had been less marked, bright mind masked by chemicals.

Jesus.

Gil wandered away a little, staring at the hotel carpet like it was going to speak its secrets to him, tell him who had walked what way with two young men and left just by themselves. He headed for Jim, and waited for Jim to notice he was there. It took a moment, or maybe it was five. Gil wasn't so sure, and it wasn't like it mattered. Not when his mind was somewhere else altogether.

"Hey. You awake in there?"

It was even something of a surprise when Jim spoke to him, if he was honest about it. Still, he went with it, lifting an eyebrow at Jim like it was all nothing. "Did you get the tapes?"

"Yeah. Sent 'em back to the lab with Nicky. Archie said he'd stick around, go through them. We've got a time frame, after all. I mean, as much as that kid or the other one can give us some kinda time." Iantine was obviously high, and it was a good guess to say Greg was, too.

"So it's still a single homicide?" Gil needed to be sure, and he wasn't sure why, but he did. He needed to know, so that the rest of the case would either be easier or harder.

"Yeah. The other one, Greg Sanders, he's a tough kid. You know? Got a record, couple of purchases, possession, that kind of thing, but he's holding his own. We're getting some other information on him, stuff from DCFS. See if he's got family or what, but that doesn't seem to be the case." Jim shifted and took a deep breath. "He was a mess. There's days I wish I hadn't given up smoking."

There were days that Gil wished he hadn't given up smoking, too, not that Jim could remember when Gil had. There was something about autopsying so many black-lunged people a week that put a guy off of smoking. "Yeah. He doesn't have any family to speak of, so DCFS isn't going to get very far."

The way Jim's expression changed, brows rising, said... Well. A lot. "Yeah? Why's that?" And how did Gil know. The question didn't have to be said aloud to be present.

"They're dead." Or he said they were dead. It was always hard to tell, but Greg seemed honest. He'd never stolen from Gil when he stayed over. He asked and he was so polite. Gil looked away from Jim for a moment, and then back, and he still had those raised eyebrows like he was waiting. "I know him. He sleeps on my sofa sometimes."

He needed to turn the case over to someone else. The expression on Jim's face said he did, said he should have mentioned it earlier, and he knew. He knew that was the case, but he wanted to see it through, wanted to solve this. "On your sofa," Jim said slowly, and Jim didn't have a dirty mind. If Jim was saying it, turning the situation over in his mind, what would Ecklie do?

"On my sofa," Gil agreed. "He's a smart kid who made some bad choices." He'd mentioned that he needed a place to sleep once. Then it had turned into more-than-once. "He's stayed there sometimes while I'm at work."

"Gil...." Jim drew a heavy breath and let it out. "Sometimes, I wonder if you've got your head screwed on straight. Go to the lab. Get yourself off of this case."

"I want you to keep an eye on the scene until Catherine and Sara get here." He'd call them and then Ecklie, recuse himself from the case, and just... pretend that mistake had never happened even if he wanted to solve it. Badly. The taste of it was in the back of his throat, coating his tongue, and he couldn't remember ever feeling so desperate to have something come to a definitive end with someone in jail for the crime.

"Yeah. You head out of here. You going to the hospital?" And Jim didn't bat an eyelash at the notion, just asked him as if he knew Gil was going.

Gil paused, already reaching for his phone as he started to turn away. "Unless Sara and Catherine aren't finished with their cases." Or something else came up, and it inevitably would since he'd had to step back from the case now.

He could go after work. Slip in, see if he could get in to see Greg on the merit of his badge, take him... something. Anything. Take Annabelle to see him, and maybe it was pathetic, going to visit a whore in the hospital, but Gil had never been the kind of man who cared one way or the other about that kind of thing.

Jim nodded. "Yeah. Well...." He cleared his throat. "Good luck."

Gil didn't know why Jim was wishing him good luck. Gil just nodded, and turned away, fishing out his phone. Jim would keep the scene in tact and Nick would work it with Catherine and Sara and... And that was the best he could do.

He started to dial Ecklie on his phone, a number he deliberately kept out of autodial. He knew it by heart, anyway, mostly because he had to know it. Besides, it was in his call log if he got desperate. One out of every five calls probably involved Conrad herding him around as if he was some sort of cat.

_"Ecklie."_

"Conrad. I need to be taken off of the lead case tonight. I know one of the victims." No details, no adding _'It's the hooker killing'_ , no mention of how well he knew him. He just needed to keep Ecklie informed so he could keep the sheriff efficiently in the dark.

The pause in Conrad's voice said everything and then some. _"The one at the Sands?"_ It said, _'Gil, I didn't know you led such an interesting life!'_ It said, _'Do we need to discuss this?'_ It said, ' _My curiosity knows no bounds. Tell me about your sex life so I can use it against you later if I find it to be necessary.'_

It was just the way Conrad was, and it wasn't like he could help it. At least Gil supposed he must have tried at some point and failed. Miserably.

"The one from the Sands who's still alive." Gil had wandered out of the lobby and outside, heading for his car. He'd left part of his kit up in the room, but Nick would bring it back later. "I don't know what else you need to know."

He could almost hear the turning wheels of Conrad's mind. _"Right. Did you touch any of the evidence? Do any of the interviews? We'll have to go over all of that and be sure you didn't...."_

"I took overall photos. Nick bagged evidence while I went downstairs to talk to the decedent's brother. Then I spoke to Captain Brass, and left the scene." He hadn't touched any evidence, thankfully. He'd been too busy trying to take it all in, trying to work through the case and he'd kept thinking about Greg.

 _"You should've excused yourself immediately, Grissom. I guess we'll have to make do."_ Make do and grumble about it, but that was just the way Conrad was. _"In the meantime, see what you can find out from Sidle and Willows. Maybe you can trade places with one of them."_

"I'm going to send them both in. They were waiting to take the next case up." And Gil was more than able to process a scene by himself. He reached for his keys, and pressed the button that unlocked it before he got there. He was still going to have Greg on his mind, young men with fluttering hands and edgy eyes, sleeping in their cars.

 _"You do that. And for God's sake, Gil. Stay out of trouble?"_ Poor Conrad. He was so completely exasperated, and sometimes Gil understood why.

Sometimes.

Just at the moment, though, he really hoped nothing came up. He hoped the night would be free and clear. They could page him at the hospital. "Conrad, why would I do a thing like that?" Just that little tease at the end that gave Gil a tiny buoy of satisfaction before he hung up the phone. It was time to get going, get driving, get away from the scene.

Hopefully it would be a quiet night.

~*~*~*~

He was missing a kidney.

Iantine's bad feeling must have cut short whatever had been going on in that hotel room. Will was missing both kidneys, his liver, and most of his other major organs.

By comparison, Greg was lucky. He was missing a kidney, part of his small intestine, a few strange chunks in places that made Gil want to vomit when he heard about it.

As long as infection didn't set in, chances seemed good for him. They had good doctors, but Greg had no health insurance. It was a catch 22, because how did a hospital bill someone who had no address? They certainly couldn't contact next of kin. It wasn't as if Greg had anyone to call on, anyone who could help him. It wasn't as if he had anyone to make medical decisions for him or...

"Grissom? Gilbert Grissom?"

The nurse looking for him was dressed in a disturbing shade of magenta, the color making his face turn a funny sort of sallow in comparison.

Gil stood up a little, a flex of thigh muscle that was a little unsure because he was playing it by ear just by being there. "Yes?"

"I have you listed as having medical power of attorney for a Gregor Hojem Sanders?" Medical power of attorney. That made him the person with the right to make decisions about Greg's health care.

He didn't know how the hell that had happened. It made Gil's head ache a little because there was friends, yes, and trying to help someone, giving them the occasional safe place to stay, and then there was trusting someone not to pull the plug too soon. "That sounds possible."

"Would you like to come back to the consultation room, Mr. Grissom?" It was an invitation as much as anything else, the words quiet and almost gently spoken, a sort of coaxing that he didn't need. Not really.

Maybe a little.

He wasn't sure what he was doing but playing it by ear, stumbling through the motions even when he nodded yes and walked towards the man. He still had his name tag on, lab ID, and he probably needed to put that away. Needed to do something.

The consultation room was white, gray seats that looked almost comfortable positioned in convenient waiting places, facing a white board with a handful of wipe away markers neatly lined up below it. A handful of Impressionist-style paintings in ridiculous soothing pastels dotted the walls.

It was all made to calm people, and Gil supposed that was where they took people to tell them the people they loved were dead. Gil just wondered how disturbing it would be if he called Jim to warn him before the hospital did.

Twelve minutes later, he was considering telling them that they ought to leave magazines in the waiting rooms, newspapers, something. Anything.

Seven minutes after that, he considered getting up to find someone, anyone, with an answer.

Twenty-three minutes after stepping into the room, the door opened, and it was nearly impossible to keep the breath of relief from slipping past his lips.

"Mr. Grissom? I'm Dr. Kandis, the emergency physician on staff this evening...."

"How is he?" How is he was a stupid question, but it did cut right to it -- dead, alive, hanging on. Gil only really wanted to hear one of the last two. But now it was on his mind, reaching past a blank muddled worry and into something worse because he'd had all of that time to turn the crime over and over in his mind.

"Mr. Sanders is in critical condition. He went straight to surgery after arriving here. We realized that he was in serious condition on the ride over and had a surgical team waiting. He's missing one kidney and a fair portion of his small intestine, as well as having several surprising incisions as if there was some preparation for the removal of his stomach and liver."

"I know that already." And now he wanted something new, or was that it? Was that all the news there was on him? Small intestines were important, and so was a kidney, but thank god the bastard hadn't cut away his stomach and liver.

Dr. Kandis nodded. "Of course. Now, they have him in surgery at the moment and they've managed to slow most of the bleeding as well as suturing the large intestine back into place. I'll be going back to the ER, but a nurse will be showing you to the surgery waiting room. You'll be given a number. That number will be called every hour to let you know his status."

Every hour. "All right. Thank you." And he'd be out there, waiting, nervous, hoping that he came through surgery in better shape than he'd entered the hospital in. Hope was something that made it possible to sit in those rooms; made it possible to stay quiet and not scream or shout or declare that it wasn't fair, wasn't right, wasn't anything, and where was God in all of this?

Gil sincerely hoped that there were magazines in the next waiting room. Magazines and coffee and, if he was lucky, a gift shop with Jelly Bellies. "Follow me, please? I'll take you to the OR waiting area."

"Thank you." Thank you, Gil couldn't remember the last time that he'd whispered thank yous that much, that often. He still didn't know how he'd ended up on the paperwork, and he wouldn't be able to ask Greg for days. Couldn't think of how Greg had done it, because didn't something need to be signed? It was something to think about other than what kind of killer would cut body parts out of prostitutes. Escorts.

The memory of Hannibal Lecter was at the back of his mind, splashy headlines that had made him shudder and fascinated him all at once. That had been thirty years ago, and it was still strong enough in his mind to make him wonder. It wasn't the kind of murder Lecter would commit. Lecter had been missing for a lot of years. On the other hand... Missing organs. Gil could only think of so many uses for them as he rambled along behind the hurrying physician.

There was the possibility that it was black market organ donation, but somehow small intestines didn't match that pattern. It made Gil's mind reach desperately when it was probably something so much more mundane because that was just Gil reaching. Looking for a reason when there was no sane reason for anything a serial killer did.

Greg was just lucky to be alive. He'd be lucky to continue being alive, and Gil was going to wait until he found out he'd make it.

The first hour wasn't so bad. There was a gift shop, and while they didn't have Jelly Belly beans, they did have packs of crackers and peanut brittle, and no few magazines. Reading the latest article in _Glamour_ about how to _find your body's best skirt_ made the time pass, even if it was slowly.

The second hour dragged so badly that all Gil could do was twiddle his fingers, tap his foot, and watch the rest of the people waiting.

The third hour, they were thirty minutes late in calling.

They were thirty minutes late and Gil's nerves were on edge from it, because he knew what happened, knew the worst case scenario so much more intimately than any others. He'd thought that Greg was bleeding out, because all of those soft tissues were prone to bleeding, and nicks could be fatal, could spill stomach acid and things into the abdominal cavity, and...

"Family number seven."

Seven.

He was seven, and he was surprised to find himself jumping out of his chair and striding towards the small desk just to the side of the wide waiting room. "I'm seven."

The whole family, just the one, just the medical power of attorney holder, even if Gil guessed that Will and Iantine would have been there if they could. If they hadn't been high and they'd known. They were at least people who would've noticed he was missing if he didn't show up for a few days.

It would have been too late by then, of course. But they would have noticed.

"Mr. Sanders is doing just fine. They'll be closing up in the next half hour, and when they do, I'll call you again and show you to one of the consult rooms. Dr. Baddouin will want to speak with you."

It was all anticipation, all 'We'll tell you more next time', that was starting to stretch Gil's nerves a little. But Greg was doing just fine, thank god. Short a few organs, but if he could just... survive.

The funny thought crept into his mind that Greg was going to be getting all of the painkillers he wanted for a while. "Thank you." There was time to duck outside and see if he had any messages from work on his phone.

Conrad was probably wetting himself looking for him. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell with Conrad, most of the time. Conrad was Conrad was Conrad, and one day he might feel overbearingly protective, but the next he'd ride Gil's ass. It was impossible to work out what went through Conrad's mind most days. The only thing Gil was sure of was that it didn't work, didn't function the same way that his own mind did.

Gil turned away from the desk, and wandered out of the room. He knew his way back, and maybe a little fresh air would help clear his head. A little fresh air and not interfering with medical equipment with his phone.

Hopefully by the time he came back, there'd be good news from the mysterious consultation room, and maybe there'd be good news on the phone. Gil turned it on, half peering at it while he walked. Four messages.

Conrad, Conrad, Nick, Jim.

Might as well call Conrad and get it over with, he supposed, but it would be easier to call Nicky, call Jim and see what was going on first. That was a pretty good plan, Gil decided. It would head him in the right direction, anyway, let him know what Conrad wanted, maybe.

It was a momentary tossup, but where Nick would be diplomatic, Jim wouldn't be, and that was what decided the order of callbacks for Gil. Ease into things before he called Conrad back. He pressed the green phone button lightly, and lifted it to his ear.

 _"Brass."_ That was Jim all over, not even looking at the screen to see who was calling. He just picked it up and answered, and that had probably kept Conrad from calling Gil more than twice.

"It's Grissom. I missed one of your calls...?" And just like that, Jim would hopefully fill him in. Hope was all Gil had been going on for hours and hours, and maybe Jim had something solid to offer, something he could hang onto.

Maybe.

_"Hey, yeah. Ecklie was looking for you. You've been off the clock a couple hours, though, so me and Cath shifted things over to one of the guys on days. You at the hospital?"_

"Yeah. I'm... waiting for news." Had his power of attorney, and that was going to keep bothering Gil, because he wasn't sure how it had happened. Wasn't sure how Greg had pulled that off. "I couldn't leave my phone turned on in the waiting room."

 _"Yeah, well. Let us know when you hear something. The other kid, the living twin, he went all to pieces in the morgue. We sent him to Rawson-Neal, got him into the rehab program there."_ Maybe Gil could get Greg in, too, get him clean, get him better. Maybe a lot of things.

"Thanks. I'll tell Greg that when I see him." That at least one of his friends was still alive. He had to know that Jim would expect him to call as soon as Greg was coherent for an interview, too. Trace. Trace on Greg's body, and his clothes in a bag, except Gil was fairly sure that Greg hadn't been transported in clothes, hadn't been hacked up in clothes.

Chances were any evidence on his body was gone, cleaned away in the process of getting him ready for surgery. Funny, Gil thought, that he didn't really care. Not at all.

_"Yeah, well. Guy needs something to rest easy about, I'm guessing. Ecklie's probably gonna have something to say about wanting you to come in for that case. Tell him to bite you."_

He didn't need to hear Jim to tell that Ecklie was agitated, and it made Gil wonder just what the case was. He probably wouldn't take it because day shift was already starting it and... and that much time had really passed already. It was no wonder that he was tired, when time passed without windows in a bland waiting room. "I'm sure he would. Was there anything else?"

 _"Sums it up. Hey, Gil?"_ Jim cleared his throat. _"So, uh. How long you been seeing this kid?"_

He should have expected Jim to phrase it that way, the way that made Gil's head ache a little. "A couple of years. It isn't what you're thinking. He shows up when he needs... help. Sometimes he'll disappear for weeks, and then he'll be in the coffee shop down the street like he was there all along." Show up all smiles and fluttering hands, and if there were new bruises on his arms or an even more tired expression on his face, it didn't matter to Gil. Not really. He just wanted....

He just wanted things that he couldn't really have. That he didn't think he could have, not ever, and he would never ask Greg for those things because he wanted to be the person Greg didn't have to give them to. He wanted to give Greg other things, and God. God. Maybe he should just admit that he'd fallen in love at first sight, like he had with Heather, and both of those things were disastrously stupid in their own ways.

Heather had never forgiven him, and she never would, and it didn't matter if she did or didn't, because it wouldn't change the way Gil respected her, the pull he felt whenever he saw her. It wasn't the ache in his groin that a lot of people could bring on, but a pull from his chest, a knot in his throat, and a fuzzy head full of unfulfilled dreams that he'd ruin if he got too close to them.

Greg was one of those, too, one of those people who did that to him, who made him stumble over common sense, and swell with a little pride to think that Greg's friends knew him as the nice older guy Greg stayed with sometimes. "I never did anything inappropriate with him."

Which was still more than he could say about his relationship with Heather.

Jim was quiet on the other end of the line for a moment, the background noises rising and then falling slack as the sound of a door shutting came over the phone. _"Just because you never have doesn't mean you haven't wanted to,"_ he said softly. _"I'm not lecturing you about it. I mean, I know what you're thinking. That's all. So just..."_ Just keep on, and maybe Jim was encouraging him and maybe Jim wasn't. Gil wasn't really sure.

"He gave me his medical power of attorney. I'm at least going to see him out to the other side of this." This. This, being hacked up by a probably blossoming serial killer or spree killer. "I'll be in tonight, Jim. Good luck with the case."

 _"Yeah. Get some rest, would you? You're no good to him or us all worn out."_ Sage advice, as always. _"And don't worry about Ecklie. I'll go by and tell him something. Let you know what it is."_

It was good to have friends. He was still vaguely concerned, perhaps, but not worried about Ecklie. Now, now he wouldn't call Conrad back. He'd pretend he'd never seen that message on his phone at all and he'd go back to waiting for word on Greg. "Thanks."

Thanks, and he closed the phone then and there so he couldn't and wouldn't call Ecklie back, wouldn't call Nick and possibly let it get around that he was actually answering his phone. Conrad had a way of finding out the best kept secrets of the CSI lab. If Nicky was sane, he was on his way home to sleep.

Gil was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to sleep any time soon, and he still had to wait for the information desk nurse to come and get him, let him talk with Dr. Baddouin. Then he could go home, get some sleep, pull himself together a little.

Look at the local detox and rehab clinics, maybe.

Sometimes thinking that far ahead could keep his brain from dwelling on the bad news, the inevitable potholes in the road of good intentions that could make even a trip to hell uncomfortable. Gil pocketed his cell phone, and turned around, headed back to the waiting room and the oppressive silence and the bad magazines. He could pretend in his head that everything was going to work out. That Greg would get better and that he could get Greg into some kind of system that would fix him, except if he could do that then why hadn't he done it already? Then Greg wouldn't even be there. If he'd just done what he should have done to start with then....

"Family seven?" The smile on that face was kind if not encouraging, and Gil would take what he could get, really. "If you'll follow me to the consult area, the doctor should be with you in the next few moments."

"Thank you." At least this time, Gil had the sense to expect another half an hour of waiting instead of just a few minutes. It somehow made for less tension, less jitteriness, knowing that it was going to take longer than it should have. Knowing that he'd have answers, he'd have something to hold onto, even if it was bad news.

Bad news, right at the moment, felt like it was better than no news at all. He followed the woman quietly through the halls, past other people with smiling or frowning faces. He wasn't surprised to find the consult room to look much like the previous room, with a small white board and markers, and indeterminate paintings.

It made Gil wonder what those white boards were for. Did they use them to draw out pictures of surgeries, or to explain what precious body part was failing in someone's loved one? Maybe he could ask if he could stretch himself past nodding and saying thank you.

He was guessing that he wouldn't manage that so well, but it wasn't like it would be the end of the world if that was the case. He could ask again later, or maybe just consider it for a while.

"Mr. Grissom?" The door had been open, and the doctor in it was still dressed in scrubs, a white lab coat pulled on over them as if that would make him more comforting. The booties over his shoes actually just made him more disturbing.

Straight from surgery, then, and Gil was at least comforted that there wasn't a spray of blood marring the man's face and clothes. It didn't stop his eyes from wandering, looking for other signs, because spray was hell to get off, and he was used to looking for it on people. "Yes?"

"I'm Dr. Baddouin. I did the surgery on Mr. Sanders. I just wanted to talk to you and let you know that things went about as well as could be expected. We've managed to repair the damage to his intestines and to do all of the repair work for the removed kidney. There were some additional cuts made in preparation for the removal of other organs, but we managed to get the bleeding under control and suture those as necessary. The next forty-eight hours will probably be critical, but after that..." He nodded. "We'll keep an eye out for infection. It's highly likely under the circumstances, but we have a lot of hope."

Gil surprised himself a little by sucking in a breath of air when he hadn't been doing it while the doctor had talked. "That's... thank you. That's good to hear. When will he be able to receive visitors?" Then Gil could plan his sleep around that time.

"If you ask at the front desk, they'll give you a schedule for the critical care unit visiting hours. Today, he'll be kept in recovery and then isolated, but he should be available for visitation tomorrow." Dr. Baddouin paused and shifted. "We don't have a lot of medical records, so I'm afraid we're working blind. Is there anything we should know?"

"He had some kind of accident when he was in college. Consequently, he's addicted to pain medications. Can I see his medical records, what there is?" There, that was the first logical thing he'd thought in a long time.

There was a certain reluctance on the doctor's face, but Gil had medical power of attorney. It wasn't like they could say no. "Of course. Do you know which medications?"

"Percocet that I know of." That he'd seen on Greg, that he hadn't taken from Greg and thrown out because he knew that Greg would just 'work' for more, and it was wrong of him either way. Then again, Greg could've been grinding up oxycodone and Tylenol just as easily as looking for just the Percocet.

"So, oxycodone. All right. We'll...." The doctor nodded slowly. "We'll make him as comfortable as we can and control the pain as best we can as well. I'm sure we'll be able to do that."

"Thank you. The police are going to need to get a statement from him when he's awake, and someone will be by later to get a DNA exemplar swab." ICU be damned, and Gil knew it, because they needed to work out who had been where and rule out unknowns.

Greg's fingerprints were probably already on file somewhere.

He wouldn't think about that now, because the doctor was nodding again, speaking. "We'll need warrants to cover any information requested. I'm afraid that we weren't very concerned with evidence when they brought Mr. Sanders in, understandably."

"The victim comes before the evidence." Gil watched the doctor, and he could see thoughts crossing his face. Jim had probably been there, no, he knew Jim had been there in LA, with his daughter, watching people who were thinking _'how can she be like that and you're a cop?'_. The doctor probably thought he was Greg's uncle, or some relation, and it made Gil wonder if Greg had any relatives left, anyone alive who would care about him.

"When I come back tomorrow, I just go up to the desk with ID?" It was strange to be on that side of entering a hospital instead of using a warrant.

"That's all you'll need. CCU is on second floor next to the ICU. There's a visitor's waiting room just down the hall, and there'll be a volunteer there. She'll let the nurses know you've arrived and make arrangements for you to visit." It was obvious that their conversation was mostly done. "If you have the warrants, you can take copies of the file back for your investigation as well."

"It isn't my case." Gil shifted, stood, and offered the man his hand for a moment. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Mr. Grissom. Good luck to you. I suggest going home and getting some rest in the meantime."

He lifted his eyebrows, but that was... that. The vigil was over for the moment. He needed to sleep, and he couldn't stay in the waiting room for the next twenty-four hours, waiting to see Greg. He'd wait a little more, get the file, and then he'd go home. He could stop to see Greg after his next shift.

As long as Gil kept moving, time would just speed past.

~*~*~*~

Ow was a relative term. Ow was pretty serious, too, in Greg's opinion. Ow was, in fact, cause for serious consideration.

Ow definitely deserved more than whatever it was they were shooting in through his IV.

He was fairly sure that it was piss, because whatever it was wasn't half as effective as probably some of the stuff that some of his friends could piss. It was giving him a headache, too, or maybe it was just that the general pain had slid and slipped and spread so much that it had needed to expand up into his brain pan just to get a little more room. There was no way, no reason that his stomach should have hurt that much.

If only he could remember exactly why it did.

Greg had done a lot of stupid shit in his time. He had. Never mind the years between ten and seventeen, because those didn't count as stupid shit he had done personally, and he was pretty sure that the lab explosion first semester of his senior year at UC Berkeley didn't count as his personal stupidity, either. The addiction result from that was definitely stupid shit, and he had a fair feeling that it was seriously working against him this time, the way it had that one time with the homophobe who had tried to tear him a new one in a really unpleasant place.

He was pretty fond of that place, but there was always one of those guys, the ones who picked up someone and then got angry when they realized that holy shit, they were gay. Greg was willing to admit that he was fucked up, but at least he knew it, while guys like that were real fucking pieces of work. It just sucked that every time someone pulled stupid shit on him, his own problem made things worse, made them hurt more. Made him hurt more, because while he wished he could make them hurt...

"Shiiiit," he sighed, rolling his head on his pillow. Shit was about the only word that seemed to apply because he'd gotten himself into something serious now, regardless of what he remembered or didn't.

"Are you awake this time?" From quiet and his own throbbing head to a voice he knew and wow, someone had called him in? Wow. There were fingers right near the IV port at the back of his hand, and maybe the drugs were kind of working, because Greg was pretty sure he would have been able to remember that.

"Awake is a relative term," Greg managed to mumble. "Seriously feel like..." Well, shit. Exactly what he wanted to say and hated to say in front of Gil. He always tried very hard to watch his mouth around Gil. He wanted Gil to think good things about him, wanted him to like him. A lot more than he did, sadly, but still.

"Shit," Gil supplied for him. He had a tired look on his face, but he was looking at Greg with those smoldering amazing intense eyes that Greg just... Just wanted to pet, which was a thought completely care of the IV tube of pissy painkillers and not any coherent thing Greg wanted to be thinking. He liked Gil's eyes a lot, liked the faint tired tip of his mouth. "The last time you were awake you were mumbling about pizza. It's probably going to be a while before you get to eat pizza again. But you're going to be okay."

"I like pizza." It wasn't so much a non-sequitor as it could be. "I hurt all over. What 'm I doing here?" The last time he'd been in a place like 'here', he'd been blown up. There had been fire, too, fire that had left marks over his back that some people seemed to think were pretty. Greg knew better.

Greg hated them.

Gil's expression shifted a little. "What do you remember?" Oh, that was never a good question. That was like waking up with a feather boa around his neck and a chocolate scented ass and getting asked that question. Not that it happened often, at least not the question part, but still. Still.

Actually, waking up with a feather boa and a chocolate scented ass had to be preferable to this, this being an intense pain rooting around his middle that suddenly brought sharp tears to his eyes, made his breath come in a great gasp that just intensified the pain. "Guuuuuh." Ow. Ow, ow, ow, and he groped for a moment to see if maybe there was a pump, something, anything, God.

"Easy, Greg. Here, take a deep breath, and..." And Gil was dinging the pump's control, which Greg was going to jam for all he was worth because fucking jesus he hurt, and he couldn't think except that Gil was wrapping the fingers of his other hand around the thingy, and he had the button beneath his thumb.

Ohh, that had to be morphine. Yeaaaah, okay. Okay. Maybe he could breathe now, at least a little. That sharp pain subsided, leaving only dull agony behind. "Fucking God," he moaned, and then felt bad because he didn't say words like that to Gil. In front of Gil. Did he? No. No, he didn't.

"It's okay," Gil murmured, stroking over his knuckles. "It's a miracle that you're alive. It could still get worse before it gets better."

"Greaaaaat." The slow, steady progression of that word made him want to giggle. He couldn't help himself. "Toony the Tiger. Ohh." Oh, yeah, he hurt, and there was something... Something he should remember. Something... "Wh're's Will?"

Grissom's face looked so serious, and his eyes cut away for a second before looking at Greg's face again. "He's dead."

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. That hurt worse than whatever had happened, and he couldn't stop himself from whimpering. Will. Will was... "Ian?" What had happened? If he could just remember then maybe he could... could do something. Could say something. "Oh God, oh God..."

"Iantine is..." Gil hesitated, and his eyes finally dropped, along with Greg's stomach because Jesus, god, if Iantine was dead, then. "The department, they managed to get him into a program. Rehab. It serves the dual purpose of keeping him safe until we know what's going on."

Oh. Oh. That was... that was really good. Really fucking fabulous, and he was so tired. So very tired. "'z my faul'." All his fault, because... because why? Because he didn't remember why, but it must be. He was good at fucking things up beyond all recall. Really good at it.

"No, it's not." But it was, and Gil didn't say anything after that. Maybe he was waiting for Greg to say something, but that pump was good and fast and he was drifting away already. Gil's fingers were holding loosely onto his hand, and if Will was dead and Iantine was safe, and he was...

~*~*~*~

There were a lot of things Nick Stokes expected. He expected the sun to come up in the morning, he expected that he'd be able to help people with his work, he expected to see some really bad things at least a couple of times a week, sometimes more.

One thing he had never expected was that Gil Grissom would be dating a hooker with an addiction.

They were just things that didn't fit anywhere into his world scheme. Gil Grissom dating was barely even on his radar, except everyone knew about Lady Heather and everyone remembered when he'd tried dating lab techs and everyone remembered Terri Miller and of course, Sara. That was okay, that was actually probably as close to normal as Gil got. But...

Dating a hooker with an addiction didn't do it for Nick.

He couldn't say much to anybody about hookers; after all, there had been Kristy, and, well, everybody knew how that had turned out. Badly was perhaps the understatement of the century.

"Heavy thoughts." Catherine's voice interrupted him, made Nick look up at her.

"Maybe." He sat back from the photographs, and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes for a second. "I wish this were a normal case. It's so far from the usual hard case, that..."

"That it's hard to decide which way to go, yeah," Catherine agreed, stepping up beside him to look at the photos. "Gil's always been different. Ecklie's about to piss himself wanting Gil to call in."

"Why? I mean, what good's it gonna do if he does?" It wasn't like Grissom could work that case, and it had been a really fucking slow evening anyway.

"Something about a bug problem." Catherine reached out, her fingers caressing the edge of one of the pictures. "This... this is vicious. Whoever did this, they meant it. Has anybody managed to find the other guy, Darius?"

"Brass has a bulletin out for him, but we're not even sure that's his name." Nick watched that motion, the way Catherine's fingers moved. She hadn't seen the body before the coroners had taken it away but she'd been at the autopsy. "He's a suspect, according to Brass."

"Yeah, well. We got a pretty good description of him from the vic's twin brother, so we ought to be able to track him down if we look in all of the right places," Catherine noted, leaning forward. "This symbol...."

"What, the flower?" He'd tuned out a little when Grissom had been trying to explain it, but that had been before Grissom had admitted that he knew one of the vics, and Nick hated to admit it, but his brain had probably had to dump a couple of years of high school French to make enough space to comprehend Grissom with a hooker boyfriend.

"Lily of the Valley." Catherine considered that for a moment. "Have you tried any of the databases? See if this is somebody's calling card?"

Cross reference it against other cold or not so cold cases, of course, that was almost obvious, but just then Nick wasn't feeling the obviousness of it. He'd barely remembered to do it. "Yeah. There's a guy in New York who's been doing roses, but he also prefers women."

"Roses?" Catherine's brows rose, her head shaking. "Definitely not this guy, then. So, the meaning of Lily of the Valley... Sweetness, tears. A return to happiness, humility."

"Grissom mentioned that fragility was also a possibility. Or, you know, the guy likes flowers and we're reading into it." Nick wasn't sure, but it made his mouth twitch a little as he pushed his chair back and stood up to stretch. "There wasn't any usable trace."

Catherine shifted, lifting a hand to her mouth, considering the matter. "Fragility. Huh." Actually, that was probably a pretty good one if they thought about it. The two twins looked fragile, looked like they'd need a good strong partner to hold them up in a stiff wind. Maybe Griss's boyfriend looked like that, too, all too-slim length and floaty hands and wide dark eyes. He wished he knew. "Breakable, something that could be shattered. It's usually the kind of thing serials prefer in women, not men."

"Maybe this guy's breaking the mold. He likes fragile men, maybe? Has anyone been past the hospital to get photos of the other victim?" Maybe it was -- no, it really was curiosity that made Nick ask that with Catherine looking contemplative and in the same room with him.

"Not that I know of," Catherine admitted. "But I'm curious, too, so we could answer the question and satisfy our curiosity all at once." The grin she gave him said more than anything else exactly how curious she was.

Yeah, Nick liked Not A full Supervisor Catherine a lot more than he liked her as his swing shift supe. She was curious and great to work with again where before she'd been run ragged and understaffed and just had fallen in with the bureaucracy too much. "We have warrants for it to make it a good full trip?"

"Full medical records and all the information we can possibly get. They saved the sheets they took him to the hospital in," she admitted. "Why don't we get going, Nicky? A field trip'll do you good."

"Stretch my legs," Nick agreed, slapping the side of one thigh before he leaned in towards the table to put the photographs away. "Meet you at the car?"

"Gimme five minutes to sign us out and grab a camera," Catherine agreed with a wink, sashaying off towards her office.

Nice. Nice, and it felt good that maybe they could get somewhere with the case and that maybe he could clear his head of strange sideline thoughts when he needed to have it on the case. He'd just go log the pictures back in and by the time she was done, he'd be ready to roll, too.

It'd be damn interesting to see the guy Grissom was dating. No matter how incongruous the entire notion seemed.

~*~*~*~

The sound of Greg's yelling was going to be stuck in his head for the rest of his life.

Talking one minute and then just stiff with pain and yelling because it was more than he could handle, which seemed impossible. So impossible because Greg had showed up on his doorstep with a slit lip and a black eye and he'd been smiling like he'd won a prize fight. Yelling just... wasn't Greg.

Gil was just glad that they were pumping painkillers into him.

Greg was probably pretty glad, too, because he was limp on the bed, body sprawled uncomfortably in the center. There had been a moment in which Gil was utterly and completely certain that he had died, the medication relaxing him to the point where even his breathing seemed to slow. They were monitoring him closely; and all of his vitals appeared completely normal.

The monitors didn't calm Gil much. He preferred the slow lub dub of Greg's pulse under two fingers that Gil had resting on his wrist, his other fingers wrapped loosely around the skin that covered bone. He was going to have to go home in a couple of hours, get some sleep, and then prepare to head back to the lab and questions the next day. That night. Whatever time it was, and Gil had to admit that he'd lost track of time.

That was the thing about hospitals. Time either stretched out into eternity or compressed itself into seconds so that it seemed as if he hadn't been in Greg's room for very long at all. Gil had noticed that time tended to compress when Greg was awake, and that it lengthened anytime someone came in to change his bandages.

Blood didn't make Gil sick or nauseated. It didn't bother him in any way, and it never had. The curving, rough incision marring Greg's flat belly, on the other hand.... Well.

That bothered him, pulled at his brain and made his thoughts heavy with guilt, just like the yells, the discomfort when the medications weren't working. If he'd done what any sane person would have done, tried to help Greg out the right way from the start, then...

And his mind once more started to lap over what had to be a well worn mental pacing ditch. Gil Grissom didn't play the what-if game. He hadn't been the one to put Greg under a knife, but this time, it felt as if he might as well have.

"Sheee. You gotta quit lookin' like that. Face'll stick that way."

The mumbling Greg gave made sense sometimes and sometimes it didn't. Day two wasn't much better than day one had been, but at least Greg was dredging up smiles for him. He'd stopped apologizing if he cursed, too. That was faintly amusing. Greg didn't curse, not in front of Gil, and the horrified expression he had every time he said something of that nature in front of Gil was enough to bring a smile to Gil's face.

"I guess that'd be a shame." Gil straightened his back, sat up and leaned his shoulders against the edge of the uncomfortable hospital chair, and smiled a little. "How are you feeling?"

"Like somebody kicked me in a few really bad places." Places Greg probably knew about it, but he was doing his best to smile at Gil anyway, the sleepy-eyed expression on his face making him seem to be more relaxed than he probably was.

"You seem better than yesterday." Gil shifted his fingers a little, tracing over the tendons of Greg's wrists. His hair was stuck to his forehead, and his face looked a little too-grimy, and Gil wondered if he could get away with getting a damp wash cloth. It might at least help Greg feel better.

"Yesterday." Yesterday had been pretty bad, all things considered. There had been a moment when the medications hadn't mixed well with one another, resulting in vomiting that hadn't exactly been pretty. "Don' wanna think about yesterday." He smiled all the same, though.

"Then don't think about yesterday." Gil's fingers kept moving, rubbing gently at Greg's skin. "Anything I can do for you?"

Greg sighed, turning his hand to reach for Gil's palm. "'d do lots for a toothbrush." And probably a bath, but Gil got the feeling that Greg wouldn't ask for one.

"Okay. Do you mind if I slip out for a minute and ask the nurse if it's all right? Maybe a bath, too?" Maybe, because it was all Gil could do to fix things for Greg, all he could do to make things better just then. He was missing internal organs and a friend was dead, and Gil couldn't even push the case ahead.

The fact that the mention of a bath made Greg glance away from him made Gil's stomach clench. "Prob'ly not up to that. Bathing. 's okay if you go." His eyes were drooping shut slowly, closing the way they had earlier in the day. He'd probably sleep again for a while.

It made Gil a little sad, because he knew time would stretch out after that. "I'll be back in a second," he told Greg, whether he was asleep again or not, and squeezed his hand before he got up.

"Okay." Okay, simple and easy as that, and Greg let his hand slip back onto the mattress quietly, shifting and giving a little whimper. A glance at the clock revealed that it was probably time for the pain medication to start wearing off again.

By the time he got back...

Gil moved out of the room quickly, arrowing straight for the nurses' desk. He wasn't usually on this side of things, couldn't remember ever having to wonder how people got clean in inpatient or how they kept their teeth clean.

"Gil. It's good to see you." Catherine's voice startled him a little, caught his attention, that much was certain. "I didn't really figure we'd find you up here so late in the day. Well. Late in our day, anyway."

He had to blink, had to clear his head a little, and then he realized that he honestly had no idea of what time it was. Was it late, or early, or... And Nick was with her. "I lost track of time. You're here for..."

"They still had the sheets from the transfer," Catherine told him. "We came to get those, pick up copies of the second victim's medical records, pop in and get a couple of pictures, if he doesn't mind."

"He's a little tired. Let me just ask something at the nurses' desk." And hopefully they'd wait to pop in instead of just going on ahead. Gil wasn't sure. Was he supposed to be out of the room or in and just what did distancing himself from the case entail?

"No problem. We'll just wait down the way. C'mon, Nicky, let's..." Catherine indicated down the way Gil had come.

It was a little like being granted privacy for his conversation, and Gil took the opportunity to ask what he'd been wanting to ask before they'd shown up and derailed him. He walked to the nurses' desk, and smiled at the woman manning the desk. "Hi."

For a moment, Gil thought that she was going to ignore him, keep right on working on whatever she had in front of her. She looked up, finally, eyebrows raised. "Can I help you with something?"

"I was wondering if the hospital has any rules about helping a patient with, uh, attending to their hygiene." He probably looked desperately unsure, but he didn't care. If she said it was all right, he was going to go home and get whatever Greg would need and do it sometime before he went in to work.

"Usually families help with that kind of thing. We have some nursing assistants to give bed baths if that's what you're looking for," she offered. Obviously, it wasn't on her list of things to do. It kind of explained why Gil had needed to get up and actually physically chase someone down for Greg's medications.

"Well, I'm family. Or close enough. I was just asking if it's all right." It wasn't exactly his specialty, wasn't his job; and while it was hers, she didn't seem particularly enthused. He wondered how she'd react if he showed up to a B and just sort of shrugged his shoulders and left.

"Of course. We have soap and lotion if you need it, and we have mouth swabs if he isn't feeling up to using toothbrushes." All of which were within arms reach, or Gil got the feeling she wouldn't be handing them over. "Anything else?"

"No, I think that's it." He'd wait a beat, and then he was going to lean over the desk and get it himself.

With a desultory sort of motion, she clumped a couple of bottles and a plastic bag full of sponges on sticks in front of him. They made a pitiful showing on the counter. "Just use the call button if you need something else."

Use the call button. He'd use it if the damn people would actually answer it, which he knew they wouldn't. The doctors had been so good, and the nurses in critical care unit, too. "Sure." Sure. He gathered up the sad little bottles, and turned back towards where Catherine and Nick were probably waiting.

"That stuff's not worth a damn," Catherine informed him, shaking her head already. It obviously didn't bother her that the nursing staff knew she thought so. "If Nicky's willing to take back all of the evidence, I'll take your car and get a few things for you that'll work better."

"It... doesn't?" Gil frowned at the little bottles. Well, it was worth a try, and Gil just gave a tired shrug before he lifted his eyebrows at them both. "I'm not used to doing this."

"It's probably best to let Catherine get some better stuff. When my sister Jessie was laid up in the hospital with complications with my niece, it -- that stuff's just shit. The mouth swabs are kinda nice, I guess. Mouthwash is better." Nick stood up, and he had his camera around his neck, probably for the photos.

"Huggies makes disposable cloths with shea butter." The way Catherine grinned at him was really something. It would be a lot more something if... Well, he wasn't going to think about that. "There's a couple of drug stores across the way. There's bound to be something I can walk over and pick up for you."

"All right," Gil admitted, hesitating with his hand on the door knob. "I'd appreciate it, Catherine. I'll let you both... do your work." He pushed the door open and stepped in first, though.

"Hey," Greg started to say sleepily, and then he saw Catherine and Nick behind Gil and stopped.

"Hi. I'm... Catherine Willows with the crime lab, and this is Nick Stokes. We work with Gil. How are you feeling?"

Nick gave a tight wave, and Gil moved to set the little bottles on the side board. "It's all right, Greg. They're here to document what happened to you."

The uncomfortable way he shifted said a lot to Gil. He wondered sometimes why he didn't bother Greg, why the fact that he was law enforcement didn't gain him that same uncomfortable shift. "I don't remember much...."

"Don't worry. We're just going to ask a few questions about what you can recall," Catherine promised him, scary forceful in a mommy kind of way that made Greg even twitchier under Gil's eye.

"No one's going to bring any charges against you, Greg." Gil sat down in the chair beside Greg's bed, hoping that would help and not hinder things. He couldn't be sure. The dart of his gaze landed on Gil and then flitted back towards Catherine and Nick.

"Okay." Okay, a gentle, easy sort of word that Greg gave in a falsely confident murmur of breath.

"Okay." Catherine gave him a brilliant smile, one that usually set people at rest. It didn't work so well for Greg. Gil could tell by the way his hand reached down to grasp tightly at the sheets.

Gil wanted to take his hand, wanted to make things better for him, but he was failing at it, and that was probably why he wasn't cut out for relationships and people and trying very hard to fix things that were out of his league. Finally, he moved to slide his hand over top of Greg's. He'd given potential suspects more comfort than that, now and again over the years.

"We need you to start with what you remember of the night that everything went down," Nick suggested gently.

Gil could see Greg swallow, his body shifting faintly under the covers. He gave a faint grunt of pain. "Um. I was... I was having coffee. There's a place that I like that makes good coffee. I saw...." Greg sniffed, shifting again, his free hand fumbling for the morphine pump. "I saw Will. He was there. With Ian."

"And then what?" Nick prodded gently. Greg managed to get his hand on the pump, and he paused for a minute before he depressed the button. It was longer than the last time, and there hadn't been any screaming, yelling, desperate pain that cut into Gil's head.

It was something, at least.

"Ian was tired. He wanted to go back to the car and sleep for a while. Will said he had..." Greg looked at Gil, and Gil could sense the mortification there. "He had someone who wanted two of us. Um. To go. To..."

Catherine broke in. "To go with him to the Sands."

Greg nodded. "Yeah."

"Can you give us a description of the person?" Nick was probably thinking sketch artist, was probably thinking 'break in the case'. Gil could tell from the gentling in his eyes, the faint hopefulness. It wasn't going to happen, and he knew it even if Nick didn't. Chances were too good that Greg and Will had both taken something before they ever got to the Sands.

"We finished our coffee," Greg said, not mentioning any drugs, undoubtedly a long-standing habit. "And, um, we went to the hotel. I don't... We went upstairs to the room. Will already had a card, said I'd like the looks of this one. I don't know. I just... We opened the door and walked in and that's the last thing I remember."

"You were high," Catherine deadpanned. Gil lifted his eyebrows, as if to suggest that it wasn't very surprising. Coffee and pills, and sometimes Gil thought that the coffee shop might've had a pill factory in the back room.

Actually, it suddenly seemed very reasonable.

Greg didn't answer that, but he closed his eyes and turned his face away from them. Gil hadn't ever really thought Greg was ashamed of what he did. He always acted as though it was more of a fact than anything else, and between him and Gil, maybe it was.

"Or maybe he hit you? Gave you somethin' coming in the door?" Nick suggested, taking the bite out of Catherine's words.

"It's all right, Greg." Gil pitched his voice careful, quiet, and slid his thumb over the underside of Greg's palm. It was just a fact to Gil, something he didn't comment on or try to make Greg ashamed of because in those circumstances, in Greg's circumstances, he couldn't pretend that he wouldn't have fallen into the same kind of path.

To think otherwise was to think he was a better person than Greg, and that was just as fallible a conclusion.

"I don't know." And maybe that was the best answer Greg could give. Maybe he just didn't know. "I don't know, and I'm, I'm tired." Tired and pressing the button, even if it wouldn't give him anything for another couple of minutes.

Tired and scared and unhappy, and maybe more than a little ashamed. "You have to give us more than that to work with," Nick urged quietly. "Try to remember. You need to... try, just think about it. It could save someone else's life. We need everything we can get with this investigation."

"Nick, I think he's done. I'm sure if he remembers something else, he'll say so when he's not tired." He'd been eviscerated, and... and Nick and Catherine didn't know that yet, the extent of his injuries. They couldn't photograph missing organs and stitched over knife marks.

"Right." Catherine didn't really like it any more than Nick did, Gil could tell, but he could also see the shaking of Greg's hands, the way he tried to hide the fact that he was falling apart. Most of being Greg, Gil thought, was hiding the fact that he was falling apart. "Okay, well, we've got a few things to go on, and that's better than nothing, I guess."

"All right, can we, uh." Nick lifted his camera in a question, and Gil glanced over towards Greg to see if he was up to it. He wasn't, but no one wanted to be photographed that way, ever. Gil knew that, knew that it made suspects angry and victims unhappy.

"Whatever." Whatever, like it didn't matter, but it did. The faint green tinge around Greg's mouth made Gil shift in his chair, reaching for the pan that rested on the small night stand.

"I'm going to, ah, run next door for a few minutes while you get the pictures, Nicky." At least Catherine had the sense of kindness for that. She moved fast, out the door before Gil even had the bedpan in place, and long before Greg started to vomit. Sometimes, Gil suspected she was a sympathetic vomiter because she was always ill at ease when it was happening right there to watch.

Only doctors and law enforcement probably saw much vomiting on a week to week basis. Gil held the bedpan in one hand, and the other slid up Greg's back, steadying him as he choked through it. There didn't seem to be blood, this time. Yet. "It's okay, Greg. Nicky, could you hit the call button over there?"

Nick moved in the way only somebody with lots of siblings, nieces and nephews could, and it was something of a surprise to actually get an answer.

_"Can I help you?"_

Greg vomited again, and the sound should have been a fair indication of what was necessary, Gil thought.

"Yes, Mr. Sanders is throwing up." Again, but Gil didn't say that, and he hoped it wasn't another drug reaction and that it was just nerves, that it was just shame and half memories and nervousness ganging up against him.

 _"All right."_ The sound clicked off, and Gil could see the look of irritation on Nick's face that mirrored the way he was feeling.

"Not in any kinda hurry, are they?" He slipped past Gil's chair and into the bathroom, and Gil heard water running over the sound of one last gag.

"No, they're not. I've been trying to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, but..." But he had a feeling that if he wasn't there then Greg would be being ignored entirely, and it made Gil's fingers twitch a little, rubbing over Greg's shoulders as much as he was steadying him.

"'m sorry," Greg managed, a bleary sound as he fell back against the pillows, panting and tinged that faint watermelon-rind green color still. "Oh God 'm so sorry."

Pale and nauseated with his blood pressure sliding all over the place. Gil set the bedpan down, off to the side, though he was tempted to put it right where the nurse would step in it. "Shhh, there's nothing to be sorry for, Greg. You didn't do anything wrong." Nothing Gil would consider wrong, anyway, no matter the questions that Nick and Catherine had asked, or the guilt that Greg was obviously feeling.

Nick came back, damp cloth in hand, and leaned over for a minute, glancing at Gil before he washed off Greg's mouth, wiping his cheeks and forehead. It obviously helped, or at least felt pretty good, because Greg kept his eyes closed and stopped whimpering.

"Thanks." Gil tilted his head a little, caught sight of Nick putting the cloth back in the bathroom for a moment. "What happened to Will wasn't your fault." He'd keep saying it, too, until Greg believed him.

"Still sorry." Sorry, and going to be quiet now, Gil could tell. He was tired, and nauseated, and Gil was seriously thinking about going down and searching for phenergan on his own.

It was easier to pat Greg's hand gently one more time, and then step away, get up from the chair and press the call button one more time. He was getting tired of having to hound people to get a little help. It wasn't like Greg didn't need it, and Gil hated to leave with things so difficult.

"Hey, lemme go down and see if I can get somebody to shake a leg," Nick offered. "We can hold off on the pictures 'n things until he feels a little better, you know?"

"I think that's for the best," Gil agreed quietly. "He wasn't marked, and there's nothing... no evidence that will lead you to the person you're looking for." There were probably a couple of quick intake photos floating around, blurry, sure, but they were pictures of the evidence of what had been done to Greg.

Nick nodded and slipped towards the door quietly, casting one last look back at Gil as he settled in to cup Greg's hand again and seriously consider what Conrad was likely to do if he called in sick.

It wasn't like he could fire him. Conrad might bitch and yell and threaten him, but Gil hadn't taken any sick days in longer than he could remember. On the other hand, it might be better to save his sick days for when Greg was released and was still ill but out of the hospital. There wasn't any question that he was going to ask Greg to stay with him when that happened, so... So Gil was still unsure because people and dealing with them that closely, thinking that carefully about things that weren't tips towards guilt or innocence or evidence, was hard.

At least Nick and Catherine were gone for the moment, even if Greg was quiet.

"Sorry," Greg mumbled again, turning his head gently towards Gil again and giving a dry swallow. "Sorry, sorry. 'm so sorry."

He slid his fingers around the edges of the IV port, and struggled with what to say to that. Don't be didn't seem to work, but it could have been the drugs. "Greg? I'm sorry, too. I should have done a lot more for you than I have."

"No, no, no." No apparently seemed the way to go. "No. 's everything you could've done. 's... You did too much." Too much, and Greg's fingers waved. "Too much. Gotta... 'm gonna..." Oh dear.

It was a miracle that Gil managed to move the bedpan back fast enough without it sloshing. Hopefully Nick would be back soon, hopefully they'd have the anti-nausea drugs that had seemed to be working so well. He had internal stitching; he didn't need to be vomiting violently.

He needed a lot of things. Needed not to be there. Needed to have been safe and needed to live up to his potential, needed.... Needed a lot of things that Gil couldn't very well provide with Greg throwing up every other breath.

The door opened and a nurse stuck her head in; not the one who had reluctantly helped him earlier, but a dark-eyed woman who seemed honestly concerned. "Oh, honey. I could hear you outside. Let me go get you something."

"Please, thank you." All Gil could do was hold the bedpan, and stroke Greg's back and neck, trying to steady him and keep him calm. He barely looked up at her, but if she was a nurse who cared about her job then she was a godsend.

He had no idea how he'd done too much for Greg, and it wasn't like Greg could tell him about it, not when he was giving shallow pants for breath in between miserable retching noises.

The door opened, a little quieter this time, and Nick stepped into the room. "I thought I was gonna have to take a stick to some of those folks," he grumbled, leaving the door open behind him. "What's their problem?"

"N'inzhuranz."

"You're not the only person in the hospital who doesn't have any. There are people who have a house and two cars who don't have any." It was a poor excuse, and it made Gil's mouth twist down into a frown.

"zokay." Except for the fact that it wasn't, and Greg looked like he was going to go to sleep or at least pass out. That might at least be a relief from the nausea, and that was better than nothing.

"Here we go, honey." The nurse who had poked her head in the door was back again with a syringe and a small pack wrapped in fabric. "This ought to help you, perk you right back up."

Gil leaned back, and set the bedpan aside again. It looked like flannel, and she was massaging it with one hand while she slide the syringe in. Even if all it did was perk Greg up enough to let him sleep soundly, that would be good. That would be great, and Gil would feel a little less guilty that he was even entertaining the idea of going home to sleep before work. He could try to get sleep there, that was always an option...

"There you are, baby. Now, you just close those sweet eyes. You've gone a little green at the edges, but we're gonna fix you right up. Here you go. Is it all right if I slip this right below your sheets? Right. There we go, high above your incision."

She narrated it, and that was a little fascinating for Gil to watch, even if Nick was there in the room trying his damnedest to be quiet. The cool pack disappeared beneath the sheets, and it would probably help Greg feel better. She slide her fingers back, and patted the sheet gently after she tucked it back in around Greg.

"Kay." Okay, and it was obvious that Greg felt at least a little better. Gil liked that about direct IV medication. The pain meds worked faster. The nausea meds worked faster. It soothed Greg, which soothed him, and how had he just... never noticed? What was it about him that made Greg's near death bring his attention sharply to the way he felt?

He'd always enjoyed Greg's company, liked to have him there, liked to know that he was safe in his home. Now that he'd nearly lost him... Gil leaned forwards, adjusting Greg's pillows, pulling them up and putting them under his head a little better. "Get some sleep, Greg. That's all you have to do."

"Kay." It was a good answer, the best one he had, and so Gil just reached for the cool cloth Nick had brought out and wiped Greg's face gently. He could sense the way that Nick shifted, faintly uncomfortable at the tenderness, maybe.

"Maybe I should go check on Catherine."

"She might have gotten lost," Gil agreed, glancing over at Nick to see just what he was doing. There was something about the sound of things that made Gil curious, made him want to see Nick, and when he did...

Nick seemed reluctantly curious, his gaze lingering on both of them as if he was uncertain of what to think or what to do. It was almost comforting to know that it wasn't just him who was uncertain and unsure, but Gil knew that there were things he did think and would do without much consideration at that point to other things.

Gil arched an eyebrow at Nick, inviting question and knowing at the same time that there wasn't going to be any; just a shrug, and movement towards the door even as it opened again.

"They had everything I needed on the baby aisle," Catherine declared, sitting a bag down next to the door. "I'll tell Ecklie you're sick if you want."

"He'll know you're lying." But it was tempting, and maybe just today. Just because Greg was throwing up and being ill and he was tired, too. Gil stood up, partially to look through the bag and halfway to see them out. If he was going to do that, he didn't particularly want an audience. Greg didn't want an audience. "Thanks."

"Hey, it's that or see you come in like a zombie. It's an interesting look on you. I had no idea you ever got past the point of peanut butter jar twitching," Catherine told him with a smile.

"That's funny, I don't feel like a zombie. No strange craving for brains." Gil tilted his head, and peered into the bag with one curious hand. There were wipes, small bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a toothbrush and something that looked toothpastey, but Gil wasn't sure at first glance. "Good luck on the case. I think I may just call in sick tonight and try to catch up on sleep."

"Good idea, man," Nicky told him, and he honestly seemed to mean it. Nick was like that, though. He wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it. "Besides, you're gonna want to... you know. Be here. In case he's not feeling better."

"At least for another day." Until a little more time had passed, until he was at least a few hours past that forty-eight hour window, and still functioning infection free. "You don't have to say anything to Ecklie for me. I'll call him before the shift starts. But I appreciate the offer."

"Yeah, well, if you change your mind, you know where I am."

Catherine was a good friend, and Gil was glad that he had her. He was glad to have Nick, too, who'd at least managed to help him out a little. Keeping his head when Gil couldn't. "Good luck with the case," Gil murmured. "And if I change my mind, I know how to get in contact with you."

He'd wait until they left, and then call Conrad, so his mind could rest easy with no clock watching until the next day.

"Take care, okay, Griss?" Nick had a hand on the door handle, and he depressed it so they could both slide out.

Take care.

He could do that, take care of himself, take care of Greg. Take care of both of them, at least until things got a little better.

And he could worry about later when it came.

~*~*~*~

He hated it when the CSIs were all tapped out and he had to cross the tape. It was a sign that he needed to hire a new CSI for the nightshift, but honestly, he wasn't sure where on the planet he could possibly hire a CSI eccentric enough to fit in with the rest of them.

They were a merry band of screw-ups. Sidle with her disregard for authority and her drinking; Brown and his gambling on the job that had put another CSI's life past risk; Stokes, who, while stable, had made a string of bad choices that compounded with worse luck; Willows, with the almost requisite shady past, who at least was competent and savvy; and then Grissom.

Grissom who was dating a whore, and now Grissom-who-was-playing-hooky-from-work.

There were days that Conrad really wished somebody else had his job, or would just take it so that he didn't have to come in and watch them dance around one another.

Once upon a time, he'd worked days. Been awake when the rest of the world was, slept when they did. Being Deputy Director of the lab made that an impossibility, though. Somebody had to be awake to make sure that nobody blew anything up during swing or night shift, and it was just the luck of the job that it had to be him.

The lab director only had to be around for dayshift and sometimes, sometimes, a little of swing shift. Because he was the big boss, and while Conrad was glad that he got along with the man...

Working nights was horrible. So was the look Sidle was giving him, like he was something she'd just stepped in and tried to scrape off at the doormat. He couldn't do anything but smile and idly toy with the idea of calling Grissom's cell again. On one hand, it would feel good if he disturbed him from whatever he was doing -- on the other, he'd probably end up back in voicemail, listening to Grissom's voicemail message.

"Right." It wasn't like Gil answering would do any good. "C'mon, Sidle. Body's around this way." Over the river and through the woods didn't quite apply; more like over the puddle of piss and past the dumpster to the place where a very dead naked blond boy currently resided, making him evidence just as much as he was a victim. It just tended to be easier when they were victim second, evidence first. When they were dead and not breathing and not being uncooperative so that they couldn't get pictures.

Maybe if he went over there himself and tried to get the pictures Nick hadn't been able to. But no, then he would've crossed the tape on two cases and one court appearance was enough for Conrad. Life would've been so much easier if the people on nightshift weren't so soft on things.

"Who found him?" She dragged the o in found a little, made the word reach into his head with the noise of obvious curiosity.

"Guy walking a beat. We'd been on the lookout for him, so when he saw the victim, he knew who it was." Darius Mallory from Louisiana, all pale skin and too-bleached hair, face a nearly unidentifiable mess. Something carved with a knife lay low on his belly, and it looked like a tulip or one of those flowers they'd seen on the vic from the hotel room.

So now he'd officially crossed the tape on both cases. Flowers, and that hadn't even hit the press yet, so there was no chance of a copycat. They were going to keep that a secret from the press. Sara crouched down near the body, and looked back over her shoulder. "Did the coroners clear him yet?" Because she wanted to touch, he could tell. "This is the guy they were looking for on Nick and Catherine's case, isn't it?"

"This is the one." Which made it the same case. He'd bet money on that based on the flowers alone. "David's slow today."

"Must be traffic."

Even the coroners for night shift were a little strange. Al had cats, and David was a straight man who liked Celine Deon. Conrad was pretty sure both of those things fell into the category of damn weird.

Of course, David was probably marrying his fiancé soon, and no doubt he'd do better in marriage than Conrad had. After all, he was a straight man who liked Celine Deon. Maybe David was really a lesbian trapped in a man's body or something.

And maybe Conrad had been working with the night shift too long if he was thinking like that.

Sara was dancing her flashlight over the corpse, and in the shadows, it looked like the dead man's mouth, what was left of it, was moving. Shadow down, and the lips looked tilted up, light on his face, and the edges were the tilted down, ragged mess that Conrad expected. "Do we have pictures of the other victim yet?"

"Not yet." Not yet because Gil was standing guard over him like some sort of mother dragon with a treasure trove.

Night shift was definitely affecting him. "We'll get them, though. If this is the same guy, then I'll go by and take the pictures myself."

Sara, notably, wasn't volunteering for it, where she volunteered for just about anything else. "Better you than me." She leaned in again, and went still. "He has trace on him. There's some kind of fiber caught in the wound to his head."

"We'll get it once David shows up," Conrad told her, looking up and around. Vartann was at the head of the alley, keeping an eye out for David. "I'll check the dumpster." Dumpster diving was moderately disgusting, but it came out pretty fruitful in the long run. More people threw their murder weapons in the nearest garbage can than anyone ever really thought.

It was easy and it was dirty, and people didn't expect other people to dig through decaying food and waste products and mopped up things to find the weapon.

Conrad was glad he had gloves on. "Nick was thinking that we're looking for a pocket knife or a deboning knife if it's the same guy. He might just be folding it up and slipping it into his pocket when he's done. Like a trophy." Sara was still crouching, checking the ground around the victim now. "I wonder what he transports the organs in."

"I suppose it depends on what he's doing with them when he's done." If he was selling them, dry ice. If he was eating them, maybe it was just a regular cooler filled with ice, enough to cool them off and take them home to fry them up.

That was a pleasant thought, and it wasn't one that he was having while he carefully lifted the trash can lid, letting it rest fully open back against the wall. The scent that wafted upwards was nauseating, but there wasn't a lot to be done about that.

He really should have brought hip waders, and if he had realized he'd be dumpster diving, he'd have done it. Still, they were bound to have some pants to slip on over the others, so that was better than nothing.

"Grissom usually keeps coveralls in his trunk. I have a pair in my car, but..." But they wouldn't fit Conrad was the implication, and she was smiling a little. "Hey, I think I caught a piece of tooth here."

"Great. So they punched him in the face, sliced him up... What parts look like they're missing?" Without touching the body, they couldn't tell precisely, but it didn't look like anything was gone to Conrad.

"I can't tell," Sara admitted. "It's all... blood to me right now. The tooth, though -- he's got defensive wounds on his knuckles. It might not be his." Which was why she was pulling a bindle out and carefully flicking it into the safety of brown paper, and off of the asphalt.

"Yeah." Might not be his, but who could say? Chances were the kid was an addict. He might have been punching and pushing his own face into a brick wall, all things considered. Then again.... "Pocket knife."

"Where, in the garbage?" Sara seemed astonished by the man's stupidity, but there it was. Very likely the murder weapon.

"Right here," Conrad agreed. "Hand me the camera, would you?"

"Do you need a ruler?" Sara was standing up, peering into the trash can. The fact that he'd found evidence there was so distracting for her that she started to hand him her camera with the strap still around her neck.

"Of course I need a ruler. Do you think I crawled into the dumpster with one to fumble through for a murder weapon? Come on, Sidle. You've gotta be kidding me." Sometimes, Conrad really wondered about her in specific. Did Grissom just enjoy these people? It was the only explanation he could think of.

Maybe he wallowed in the strangeness, their sheer excitability. "Most of us carry them in our vests," she half-scolded him while she slipped the camera strap off of her neck, and passed it to him, along with a ruler.

"Yes, well." He should have known she'd have some kind of answer. He took the camera and the ruler and put them in place. "Get me a marker while you're at it," he declared, shifting his foot. He felt it press into something disgustingly sticky.

There was too-long a pause before Sara handed the marker over to him, too. "This is amazing -- oh, hi, David."

"Sara. Is that... Um. Mr. Ecklie, sir." The way David blinked at him as if surprised to find him knee deep in garbage made Conrad's head ache.

"Do something so we can get to the body, David."

"Oh! Yes..." And finally they were going to get a liver temp and a declaration of death so Sidle would perhaps busy herself looking for trace. It'd be nice if she did something useful. Okay, aside from handing him things he needed.

"Wow. Okay, um. Huh." David was kneeling down next to the victim, and pulling away the small bits of clothing still attached to him. "There's a cut here, a slice across the belly, but I don't think anything is missing," David announced. "I think he must have bled out."

"Different than the others," Sara noted. "What's the liver temp?" And there went Sidle's attention, away from the murder weapon and Ecklie, and that was fine.

"Liver temp's eighty-four, so he's been dead about eight hours," David announced, pulling the thermometer loose. No matter how many times Conrad saw it, there was something about it that made him think of cooking a turkey. "We'll know more about everything once we get him in."

"Then get him in, and Sidle'll be down to collect trace."

"So there aren't going to be any more body parts for me to come across? Someone reported in a tupperware container of entrails. Dayshift worked them. They might be the surviving vic's. I thought you might want to know." David said it so timidly, like Ecklie bothered him.

"Well, unless you're missing something in there even though you say it's all present, then no. I don't think you're going to be coming across any more bits and pieces." Conrad grimaced. He hoped there would be any more, anyway. Didn't mean there wouldn't be.

It didn't mean that the parts might be from a victim whose body they hadn't found yet. That meant that they needed a DNA sample from the living man as soon as possible. Whether Grissom was allowing it or not didn't matter. Ecklie wasn't going to bow down before him the way the CSIs on nightshift did.

No, and that was why he was standing in trash with his good shoes on.

With a sigh, Conrad turned back to work with his camera.

It was going to be a very long night.

~*~*~*~

Nausea sucked.

Nausea sucked a lot. That wasn't any kind of understatement, either. Greg was pretty sure it might even be an overstatement, but he'd gotten kind of used to it, just like he had gotten kind of used to the pain.

It wasn't exactly something foreign to him, anyway.

Greg could function without the drugs he liked. Needed, wanted, whatever. He could function with the pain, the dead spots across his back, the crushed vertebra and the tingling painful numbness of his sciatic nerve. He just didn't like to do it, and he didn't want to do it, either.

He pretty much hated it. Hated the feeling, mostly because it made him remember how things had gotten that way, all back problems and burns and trouble coping that had landed him there. Now his stomach hurt, ached, felt like someone had just blown out his whole abdomen.

And Gil got worried every time he threw up.

It was sweet, really. Greg had looked up and fallen in love the first time he'd ever seen Gil, which was stupid. Really deliberately horribly stupid. He couldn't help it, though. There was something about him that radiated things Greg needed, things like safety and trustworthiness and devotion. Things he hadn't really seen since his mom died with his Poppa and Isöaiti eighteen years ago. Things he wanted and missed and knew he really had no right to have, but he needed, and Gil was so nice. Gil let him into his house and let him stay there when he asked, and now Gil had hardly left the hospital. Giving him power of attorney had been a great decision.

He still didn't know how anyone had gotten hold of him, except that maybe he'd come across it through work. He wasn't going to ask, either. It was easier, better, to lie there and try not to vomit and try to smile.

They came in every so often to give him things, pills and antivirals and syringes full of stuff that spilled up the picc line in his right arm. Greg had never had great veins; it was probably the only reason he'd kept to popping pills and not gone on to something more serious, more damaging. Well, that and he knew how that always ended, knew what it looked like. The twins, they had been like him, taking pills and staying high for days on things that were hard as hell to get hold of without a contact. They'd had one, though, an old man with a face like a catfish who worked for a local pharmaceutical company, and they'd always had the best stuff. Greg had tricked with them on occasion, just for that opportunity.

Just for great pills, just for the opportunity to stay that way for days and so what if he was ugly as hell? He was decent, a lot better than most tricks, but he still wasn't...

Still wasn't slouched in the chair beside his bed, dozing. Still wasn't sweet and uncertainly helpful and trying so hard when Greg didn't understand why. It wasn't like he was worth that kind of effort or... Or anything. Maybe, maybe if there hadn't been everything when he was a kid, or that accident his senior year that had damaged him beyond repair, maybe then he wouldn't be the way he was. Maybe then he'd be worth it, but...

The sound of the door sliding open caught his attention, and he turned his head slowly, hoping that Gil wouldn't wake up from the sound. There was a man there, older, balding, and he looked at least moderately grumpy.

"Mr. Sanders. I'm Conrad Ecklie, from the LVPD." He didn't look like a cop. He looked like another scientist, like Gil, another person who didn't do arrests and hopefully no one was going to put him away for not remembering what had happened because he'd been high as a kite. It made tricking easier, being high to get through everything.

It even made it a little fun.

Sometimes.

"Hi." Low whisper, because he really didn't want to wake up Gil, and he hoped that this guy would get the drift. "Something I can do for you?" Besides let them take pictures. God, he'd been messed up enough before this without having additional looping scars and parts missing and....

"I need to take a DNA swab, and some pictures." He dropped his voice a little, too, and Gil was sleeping through it. He needed the sleep, Greg figured. He wasn't sure how much time had passed and Gil had been awake for most all of it. Gil had even cleaned him up with baby wipes and baby lotion and a quiet promise of shampoo and a proper hair wash later.

Gil had thought he'd been asleep, and Greg had let him think that so it wouldn't embarrass him.

"Okay." Okay, even if he didn't like it and he didn't know what to do about it. "I can't really get up." He'd walked to the end of the hall and back and they'd come in to give him morphine after that because he'd been near tears. Humiliation, Greg had found, was actually a lot worse than pain. He'd stopped crying over pain a long time ago, but he couldn't recall ever having been assaulted by quite so many kinds at once.

"That's all right." He moved to hover near the other side of the bed, and set his camera and what looked like a fishing tackle box on the floor. He crouched to get something out of the box. "So, have you known Grissom for long?"

"Couple of years." It seemed like a long time. "He comes to the coffee shop I like sometimes. He's nice." Very nice, and Greg didn't want to get him in trouble. "He buys me coffee sometimes. He's... my friend. I don't have a lot of those."

"Does he let you stay at his place sometimes?" The man stood up with a huge long q-tip in hand, like it was a sword.

"If I ask." Just the thought of that thing nauseated him, and it was bad enough already. "I try not to ask unless I have to." Like that time the guy he'd been tricking had really just wanted to get off and beat Greg up for being the queer he did it with. "He's nice." Redundant, yes, but Greg was so tired.

"Too nice for his own good. So you two aren't...?" He waved the q-tip a little, and pulled up a fake smile that Greg guessed was supposed to put him at ease. "Just open your mouth. I need to swab your cheek."

Greg swallowed hard. He wasn't going to vomit. He was not going to throw up on the man with the q-tip. "No. He's... he's not that kind of person." Greg opened his mouth slowly and closed his eyes. Maybe if he didn't see it coming...

It was barely a poke, a swabbing of the inside of his cheek. Then it was gone. "You sound so sure of that. Everything will be easier if you're not lying to cover for him, Mr. Sanders. Grissom isn't a saint."

He was. He was the closest thing to a saint Greg had ever known, anyway, and that was... that was really saying something. Saying a lot. "He's a good man. There aren't a lot of those in the world." Not nearly enough of them by Greg's estimation.

"This is true. Has he suggested anything about what to do when you come out of the hospital?" Ecklie stepped back for a moment, and slipped a red plastic cover over the tip before sliding it into a box.

"No." No, but Greg had been sick, and he never knew what Gil might or might not do. That was okay. Gil didn't have to be predictable for Greg to be completely crazy about him, no matter what. "I haven't thought about it. There're shelters..." Most of which were full and would probably take his meds and dole them out to him, which was actually the best idea, probably. All things considered.

"Captain Brass managed to get your friend Iantine Kensington into a rehab program. It's something to look into, Mr. Sanders. Ultimately, it's your decision. We're only here to catch the person who did this to you." He was picking up a camera, now, eying Greg. "I'm going to need to take photographs."

"Okay." Okay, go ahead. Keep up the humiliation, Greg could have said, because really, it was. It was humiliating and horrifying and his covers were all tangled around him. "You might need to get a nurse. I'm kind of..." Bandaged. Well-bandaged, actually.

"Oh." 'Oh', like he hadn't thought of it and wanted to mask his own embarrassment for not thinking.

Gil shifted a little, stretching one leg out sleepily. He was going to be awake soon, probably, and Greg wasn't sure what Gil would do. He hoped he wouldn't be upset, but he didn't exactly have control over anything right now. Hell, he didn't even have control over his bladder, which was kind of a good thing. Greg was starting to really love that whole catheter business. Not getting up to go pee was kind of fabulous.

"Why don't you go get a nurse?" Greg suggested lightly. He could hardly do anything else.

He eyed Grissom for a moment, the other man, and frowned a little before he turned away. "I'll be back."

He seemed like the kind of guy who'd miss the fact that everyone else would think he was referencing _Terminator_ , lightly oblivious to things like that as he headed out the door. Maybe Gil would stay asleep, and then he wouldn't have to watch a nurse and another CSI fiddling around with his naked body.

Greg had given up on modesty a long time ago. He used to have some, or at least he liked to think he had. It was a pretty useless commodity in his chosen profession, however, so he'd just. He'd gotten over it. Mostly. The notion of Gil seeing him that way made him miserable, though, deeply nauseated in a way that had nothing to do with the mixture of chemicals in his system or the parts of him that were missing. Gil didn't move again, though, so maybe it had just been a restless shifting. So maybe it would just be Ecklie and the nurse and Greg, with Gil oblivious. He tended to loom and try to fix things immediately for Greg.

And he might just run the man off.

That probably wouldn't be good, at least not for Gil's career. Greg cared about that, so he could just keep quiet and suffer and get it over with so that Gil didn't have to suffer. It should be easy enough, or at least easier than letting Gil see him half-naked, or... Or a lot of things.

He kind of wished Gil could see him naked, but that'd be under circumstances that Gil seemed reluctant to ever join in on. Gil was probably straight to start with, and if he wasn't then he was... weird and chivalrous and the door was opening again.

At least it was the nice nurse. "Hi there, honey. How're you doing?"

"Okay," Greg whispered, bringing one shaking hand up to press a finger against his lips in hopes of silence. It was better if they were very quiet and didn't wake Gil any more than they had to.

She seemed to understand that, and turned to give a stern look to the bald guy that would have intimidated Greg into silence for the rest of his life. "You be quiet now," she whispered to him, firm and a little scary.

He gave a mute nod, and lifted his camera up to gesture with it. He probably wanted to get out of there. It'd probably be weird, Greg figured, if the guy you worked with, your boss, was staying in a hospital room with a whore.

It was probably one of the few times Greg could remember feeling actively ashamed of what he did. Maybe the nurse could give him a little extra painkiller. It wasn't all that likely, even he had to admit, because Gil had told them about his oxycodone addiction. They hadn't been giving him a whole lot of that, and he'd kind of been sweating it out, wishing he could just go visit Ian or something. Ian was in a hospital, too, though, and maybe he'd get clean for a while, him and Greg both, get a real job or something so that he didn't have to feel so ashamed, and...

"Honey, he wants to take some pictures. I'm gonna have to change your bandages, anyway, so is that all right?"

"Yeah," Greg whispered. He appreciated being asked, even if there was only the one answer to give, really.

It just felt better to be asked. Yes or no. It felt good to play along a little, and she was really a gentle nurse, pulling back his sheets just enough, letting them rest at the low points of his hips so that the guy didn't get a glimpse of Greg's goods. That would be... Well, disturbing, and it was funny to him that what was normal on an ordinary day made him sick to think about when he was here like this with Gil asleep just a few feet away.

She was easy when she started to pull off the adhesive strips, but they still made him want to hiss, his eyes closing as they caught on the occasional stray hair. Greg wasn't exactly furry-chested. They had shaved the important bits where they could. Still, there was something about sticky tape coming off and revealing his soft parts, the parts that had been cut and slashed and stitched back together, something that made him want to cry more than just a little.

The padding made it hurt less, made bare brushes of contact not stab him with pain, not feel like little dental picks dragging over his skin. "There we go... Get your pictures, sir."

"Thanks." His voice was a little louder than a whisper, and oh, God, he had a flash on his camera. The light would be enough to make Gil wake up, and before Greg could say anything about it, protest it, the flash had gone off for the first picture.

He turned his head towards Gil, watching as he straightened suddenly with a wince.

It probably worked better than an alarm clock, because Gil's back was straight and he was looking around the room before his eyes even finished focusing. At least he didn't talk sleepily, but he did sit up and lean forwards, staring at the other CSI and Greg, and then back to the CSI as the flash went off, click click, again.

"Conrad."

"Gil."

The cool, almost detached way the men spoke to one another was really kind of scary. In fact, Greg would dare say the two of them were probably at one another's throats on a regular basis. Just at a guess.

"Sorry we woke you," Greg murmured, glancing at the nurse apologetically.

"That's all right." Conrad was fiddling with the zoom on his camera, and he took another two quick pictures. "Are you done?"

"I think so. We have a buccal swab and the pictures from the ER and here, so I think we'll be just fine." There was something about that smile that made Greg shiver, a fine chill chasing over his skin.

"Can I cover up again soon?"

"I just need to clean the edges and put down new dressings, honey. I'm sure that Mr. Grissom can see Mr. Uh... out." The nurse smiled a little, because she wasn't going to do her job -- and she did it well -- with an unhappy audience.

Gil shifted to stand. "That sounds like a good idea."

Greg shifted, trying not to whine. Yeah. If Gil left, he could ask for something, could try and be good, could keep from throwing up until he was outside. "'m okay," he said simply, and drew in a deep, steadying breath.

"Okay. I'll be back soon." Gil's voice went a little quieter, and then he was gone, too, herding the other man out of the room, leaving Greg with just the nurse.

"I think I'm gonna throw up," Greg murmured as the door shut behind Gil and the other man. His hands were shaking a lot more, so that he could feel it. "Hurts."

"I know, baby boy, I know." She was stroking his belly with betadine or something, and it was cold, almost stingy from the chill. "I can get you a little something before it's done, but you know it won't be anything to write home about."

"I know," Greg admitted, shifting to close his eyes. Something for the pain, something for the nausea. Anything would be good.

"Okay. It might help you sleep, and Mr. Grissom is going to be back soon, so you'll be all right. He cleaned you up a little earlier, and you certainly do smell better than a lot of the patients in here right now." She was smiling, he could hear it in her voice.

"That's good to know." Greg had never liked stinking. Bathing was one of those things he did whether he had someplace to stay or not, washing off in restroom sinks if he had to, if that was what it took to keep from looking and smelling like he didn't have anywhere to live.

Even if he didn't. Even if he didn't, he always tried to look like he did, like he just partied too hard and didn't sleep in hotel rooms after a trick was done with them, didn't sleep in the back seat of a car most other times, and sometimes, sometimes, on a sofa in a quietly cluttered living room.

"Mmmhm. I've got a lawyer in the room next door who hasn't done anything but fart since he came in. It's horrible." She still sounded like she was smiling, and he could hear the edge of the tape cutting, over and over after each carefully placed pad she put down.

"I'd laugh, but it would hurt," Greg said, mouth curving upwards just a little. "Farting? Seriously? Maybe you should get him a plug or something. Um. Cork. You know." Yeah. He was definitely not in the right kind of shape for this, brains off in left field somewhere.

"Mmmhmm. I think maybe the next time I will put a plug in it. Or you know. A whistle so we can all get a little warning to clear out of the room." She patted down gently on top of the new sheets of padding. "There we go. It's hardly seeping at all, so you're healing up well."

"Doesn't feel like it." He managed a smile, mouth curled up sweetly. "But I appreciate what you're doing."

"You'll feel it in a few more days. Soon enough, you'll be able to stand up again without it feeling like everything inside of you's going to fall out." She pulled the sheets up over him. "Get some sleep? I'll be back in a minute with something to make that easier."

"Okay." Okay, because if he couldn't have what he wanted, he'd make do with what he got and something to sleep and soothe the nausea. That would be okay, Greg thought, tugging the sheet and the blanket up to his neck.

It really was stupid to be so body-conscious. He was a whore, and he did it for money to live on and drugs and it shouldn't have bothered him. It was all Gil's fault, he decided muzzily, that he'd turned into a prude overnight. It was all Gil's fault because, because he wanted... He didn't want Gil to see things, didn't want Gil to know things, and it was just so wrong. So wrong, because Greg knew that Gil already did know. How could he have missed it?

Gil knew and didn't talk about it, didn't take advantage of things, didn't turn Greg in to the police. He was quiet about it, and he was probably out in the hallway fighting with whomever that other man had been. Because of Greg.

~*~*~*~

"Look, before you even start, you knew that this was going to have to be done, Gil," Conrad stated firmly, his brows drawn sharply together. "No matter how much you like your little whore...."

He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually punched someone. Couldn't remember the last time that his knuckles had impacted someone's face, but oh, the urge was there. His knuckles were itching, and the tendons on the back of his hand were tight, ready. He wasn't going to punch the assistant lab director, no matter how tempting it was, but he did look away for a moment before he closed in on Conrad, invading his personal space enough to make the other man step back against the wall.

"That's very professional of you, Conrad. I'm sure you'd love it if the media got a sound clip of you saying that. Why don't you add every other judgmental slur you can think of? Why don't you say what you're really thinking, if this is your professional opinion?"

The look Conrad gave him spoke volumes. "Regardless of how much the truth hurts, it's still the truth. You can't stay up here and stand between us taking evidence and the...." He waved his head towards the room. "...victim. Not when we have a case to solve. We need you in the lab where you belong."

"Did I stop you? No. I didn't stop Nick or Catherine, either, but he was throwing up when they arrived." And he couldn't get a nurse in there if his life depended on it. The nightshift nurse was so much nicer. "Two weeks ago, you were threatening to force me to take vacation time."

"Two weeks ago, we didn't have a serial killer on our hands."

Those were the words, and they made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

_Serial killer._

Gil had problems with serial killers. They made him curious, made him feel the need to corner them, ask thousands of questions such as _why_ and _what_ and _how could you_ , things he never could make his brain stop wanting to know.

"There's been another victim?" And now there was a voice twinging in with the _why_ and the _who_ and the _what_ that he might want to finish Greg off. He remembered the woman who'd identified her rapist only to be doubted and then raped by him again and killed.

"The blond we were looking for. His friend." Conrad made that nod again, and Gil wanted to demand that he use Greg's name, treat him like a human being. He wanted to, but that was so far beyond Conrad that Gil wasn't sure he was even remotely capable of that kind of behavior. "He's dead. A beat cop found him in an alley stripped down with something like a rose carved into his belly."

"And you or Catherine can't work this case?" He wanted to snap. He wanted to push Conrad against the wall, and then he wanted to retreat back to Greg's room. "I thought I'd already recused myself."

"You did. I appreciate that. You have no idea how much. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to keep Sidle and Stokes on this case, and that means..." It meant that there weren't enough people to keep on other cases.

Gil started to shake his head, and tried not to do much more than peer at Ecklie, angry and trying not to do something rash. "You're approving my overtime."

Ecklie just nodded, like he had known Gil would say that, as if he had known what he would have to do to get his way. "All right." All right, just like that, just like Gil should be working it and not staying with Greg, keeping him safe, keeping him from being hurt further.

He'd be there through the days. He'd be there every moment that he could be, proper rest be damned. "When the hospital releases him, I'm putting in for leave." Whether or not they were short on people or tired or anything, because everyone else took personal leave and time when they needed to, when they were just stretched thin, and that didn't count all of the times that Conrad had short-staffed him with suspensions and taking people out from under him.

"All right." Conrad was agreeing way too easily, and it didn't make the desire to hit him any less. One day.... "And I'll post a guard here. Just in case the guy wants to come back and finish the job."

Gil knew that was to placate him, but it did, and that just made Gil angry that Conrad was manipulating him. "Fine. I'll be on shift in an hour." He needed that time to pop in on Greg again, go home, get his kit. He needed another six to try and get some sleep flat on his back. Something, anything. He just wasn't going to get it.

"Take two. You need a shower."

There were days Gil desperately hated him.

"Right. I've got what we need, so I'm heading back now. I'll make the call while I'm on the way back to the lab."

"How kind of you, Conrad." He wasn't going to give Conrad another look, another word, so Gil turned on his heel and stalked back down the hallway. Conrad was probably smirking to himself as he left. After all, he had another CSI working, and he'd managed to insult a victim that Gil knew. He ought to be pretty happy about that.

The nurse was heading down the hall, so he paused and pushed the door open with an easy touch, stepping inside before he closed it behind him.

"Hey," Greg murmured. It sounded sleepy, hurt, quiet. "Going for a while now?"

He knew or could tell, and Gil wouldn't be surprised to know that Conrad had probably said something to him; something hateful or mean while Gil was sleeping, just to watch Greg squirm.

"I have to. He's the assistant director. I need to go on shift tonight and probably for a few more nights in a row. Are you going to be okay?" He knew that Greg wasn't going to be, but all he could do was move further into the room and close the door behind him. "I'll be back when I'm not on shift."

"It's okay." Even if it wasn't, Greg would say that it was. "You should go home and get some rest. I'll... I'm gonna be okay, Gil." He'd probably say that if he was bleeding to death before Gil's eyes. Gil had seen the records that had been dredged up by social services, knew how Greg was.

The few times he'd seen Greg, he should have guessed that. "You are going to be okay. When you're released, whenever they do that, you... I want you to come home with me." He didn't want Greg on the streets again, didn't want him getting high or anything else.

He wanted him safe.

"We'll see," Greg murmured, closing his eyes. "I don't want to make trouble for you." He probably thought he'd made plenty of trouble already from the way his fingers were clenching on the sheets. Then again, that could just be the pain.

"You're not. You haven't caused me any trouble, Greg." Gil leaned closer to him, and pressed fingers over top of Greg's clenching hand. Then he leaned down, hesitating before he pressed a kiss lightly to the edge of Greg's mouth. "I want you to rest and be safe."

The hitch in breath he felt was mostly startled, a little surprised. The way Greg looked at him when he stood up was open, vulnerable, aching. "Oh." Oh seemed to say it all, because Greg didn't say anything else.

Gil gave his fingers another squeeze, gentle still, but hard enough to be felt. "Get some sleep. I'll be back as soon as I can be."

"I promise."

That would have to do for now.

~*~*~*~

"I'm telling you," David asserted solemnly. "He has all of his internal organs. There were lacerations to both kidneys where the knife went into his back, and there were slices across his belly, but all of his organs are in place."

"You're... No, this is not the time to pull my leg, David." Sara was shaking her head, frowning and leaning over the stitched up corpse. "Just the cuts? No way. Our serial would have taken it all the way. They don't... un-work themselves from the full act!"

"Well, I don't know about that," David blinked. "What I do know is that he has all of his organs."

"Thanks, Super Dave," Nick said with a nod. "We appreciate it."

"No problem."

Sara exhaled, eyeing Nick. "And he was the most recent killing, not the first. If he had the time to carve a rose, then there was no reason for him not to have the time to remove body parts."

"Exactly," Nick agreed. "So whoever did this, he's not our guy."

"So..." She tilted her head in that funny way she had and drew in a breath. "I guess we'd better go back to the drawing board."

"So... Maybe he had an accomplice. Maybe he was the one removing the organs, and that's why they're still in there." Sara sighed. "It doesn't sound nearly as plausible that way somehow."

"We've had serials who worked with partners before. The guy with the blue paint," Nick suggested. But it didn't have that feel to it. Then again, they'd wanted two hookers to hack up, and even if there hadn't been any signs of sexual activity, that didn't mean that they hadn't gotten off on it. Maybe into a condom.

"I don't know. There's just something off about it." At least he wasn't the only one who thought so. "I really don't think it's any kind of partnership. This feels separate. That's all." Felt separate and probably was. "Let's check AFIS, see what we can learn about his past history."

"I'd bet money it's gonna come back with fifty umpty prostitution and drug possession arrests." Like Gil's boyfriend did, a short list compared to the others. Nick wasn't sure if that meant he did it less, or if he was just smarter and got caught less. Nick nodded to David, and smiled. "Thanks. I'd like a copy of the report, but... thanks."

"I'll send it up when it's done," David promised, and wandered off as they headed back out of the morgue.

It left Nick feeling a little sad and more than a little like someone had taken a big old dump on his hope for the case, because it was going in two directions at once. Maybe it was a freak accident, but flowers. They'd had flowers carved on them. Every one of them, even that Sanders guy according to the pictures Ecklie brought them.

"Okay, so, we've got... two, probably three hookers. All of them with flowers carved on their bodies, different signatures for the other two than this one."

"Best we can do is go check in with trace. Maybe there's DNA off of the knife at the second scene." There hadn't been too much at the scene in the hotel room. If they were lucky, they'd manage to scrape together a match from the DNA at the dumpster and link them that way. It was a slim chance, but it was better than nothing."

"Maybe. Hopefully Mia's finished matching the blood swabs from the hotel room to the DNA samples from our vics. Maybe there's an unknown." And that had waited until Ecklie had gone to the hospital, brave enough to get between a momma bear and her cub, or a Grissom and his...

Yeah. Maybe one day he'd stop thinking about the guy as a whore. It wasn't like he was a bad guy, probably. Just... He was a whore, and really, Nick had never thought of Gil as the kind of guy who would be interested in somebody like that. He'd always kind of figured Gil as the guy who'd be interested in somebody nice, refined, the kind of person who'd serve tea in china pots or... Somebody like his grandma, actually.

Now he was never going to be able to shake the horror of thinking about Grissom having sex with his granny.

"And uh..." God, that was a train of thought he had to derail, violently if he had to. "Uh. Maybe we'll have an unknown." He'd already said that.

"You said that already," Sara pointed out. "Having a hard time with something?"

Sara knew about Gil and the wh... ho.... Gil and Greg just as well as the rest of them. It was probably a lot harder for her considering how she felt about him. She hadn't ever bothered to hide it, and Gil had never given her any indication that the interest was reciprocated. Now it made sense why. The guy could probably suck a golf ball through a tailpipe. "Yeah," Nick shrugged, rolling his shoulders like he could shed stress that way. "Yeah. I just. That Grissom is involved in all of this is bothering me."

The look she cast his way said it all. "Yeah. No kidding. I mean, Gil just... he's never seemed like the kind of guy who'd prefer picking someone up from the side of the road. If you know what I mean."

"It's..." Nick could feel his stomach twinging a little because of Kristy. It hadn't been like that; he'd just fallen for her and she'd been smooth and gorgeous and seemed like she was turning her life around. He hadn't picked her up on the street. "Maybe he ran into him during some case sometime. I just can't see Grissom driving down around the dives cruising for hookers."

"Well, you know what I mean," Sara said, and maybe she wasn't thinking about Kristy. Maybe she wasn't reminding him of what had happened. She was probably way too wrapped up in her own issues at the moment. "It's just..."

Yeah. "Yeah," and he said it because she needed someone to agree because it was true. "Ecklie said he was coming back tonight."

"I thought he recused himself?" Sara frowned, tilting her head as they paused outside Gil's office. "I mean, it's not like he ought to be anywhere near any of this stuff."

But there he was, at least near his desk, peering down at notes and papers. "There's got to be other cases going on. But I bet Ecklie did it just to piss him off. He was staked out at the hospital when Catherine and I were there."

"Yeah, I, ah, I heard about that." Heard about it and she had obviously deeply considered it. She probably hadn't liked the conclusions she had drawn, either. "It's... sweet."

Sweet wasn't what Nick had expected her to call it, but that was certainly taking the high road after years of dogging after the man. Nick nodded, and kept walking with her past Grissom's office. "It was something," Nick tried to agree with some kind of diplomatic tone in his voice as they veered for Mia's DNA-space.

"Yeah." Yeah, and maybe talking about this one was something they just didn't need to do. It was difficult to be objective about it in any way, shape or form, all things considered. If it was that hard for him, he could only imagine how Sara was feeling about it. "So. Um. Yeah."

"Mia, do you have anything for us?" Nick pulled up a smile, and watched their harried tech glare at him. Yeah, it was going to be a great rest of the night, and that glare was probably a 'no'.

He couldn't, wouldn't take it out on her because hell, it wasn't her fault that they didn't have a sloppy killer. But damn, they needed a break.

Any kind of break.

~*~*~*~

The twin's nearest relative who was still alive was actually younger than them.

Notifying next of kin had never proved so daunting for her. The police were supposed to do it, normally, but they'd given up when the usual search didn't yield anything but Iantine, so that was that. Kin notified, but Catherine had an inkling that maybe that wasn't it. They'd had an older brother, and maybe looking for his kin was the easiest way to find theirs since according to the living, high twin, they'd been kicked out of the family except for Thomas.

It was something of a surprise to find them living in driving distance. Most of the whores and addicts in Vegas trundled in from somewhere else, and Catherine knew that from experience. Still, it wasn't so completely unlikely that she couldn't believe it at all, so she made the trip when she found the name and address of Thomas Kensington still listed that way. After all, what could it hurt?

If she accidentally brought about some kind of reunion, no matter how unlikely, then good. If not... maybe she could get more of a feel for the victims, maybe find more people they knew, look for more evidence. Right now they were at a dead end, and she wanted to stop working the case. Wanted to close it, so she could go back to working other cases and Gil would stop stomping around the office.

If it got him to stop leaving experiments in the break room fridge, she might just jump up and sing hymns of praise for whoever broke the case, actually. After all, Ecklie was the one who had really irritated him, and it wasn't as though Gil was getting to him half as much as he was getting to everybody else. Of course, the fact that Gil was punishing everyone said plenty. It said that he didn't want to be there and that he'd rather be on leave. It said that Conrad had twisted his arm to get him there in the first place, and it said, to Catherine at least, that that guy meant a hell of a lot to Gil for him to be that pissed off about having to work. He wasn't taking it out on the cases, though, no. Those were getting his full attention, and he was finishing them up faster than usual.

Grissom was just unhappy with _them_.

Catherine pulled her SUV to a gliding stop and turned off the engine, slipping out of it before heading up to the front door. It was just as well to her that she got to leave the lab. She could just imagine what kind of rampaging hell Hodges and Mia were twitching their way through, and she definitely didn't want to be part of that. Carefully, she picked her way up towards the front door, little solar lights picking out the pathway for her. It was a nice home, upscale, not in a cheap part of town. The woman's name was Dorothy Carter, and it was obvious that she could afford whatever she wanted. Well, that or she liked faking it. Catherine reached out, and pressed on the doorbell.

It rang just loud enough that Catherine could hear it, and then some kind of noise behind the door. There was a long quiet, and Catherine guessed she was being looked at through the peephole.

And then the door opened. Dorothy Carter looked nothing like what she expected. She was blonde, petite, and dressed a little sharply. It felt like lawyer or business woman to Catherine. Busy as hell chic.

"Can I help you?"

"Hi, I'm Catherine Willows. I'm with the Las Vegas crime lab. I hate to bother you, but I need to ask you a few questions about some relatives of yours, Iantine and William Kensington?"

There was recognition in those eyes, sharp and almost frightening. "Oh, god. What've they done now? They're my cousins. Well, sort of. Adopted, or something similar." She shrugged her shoulders, and stepped back. "Please, come in."

It always baffled Catherine when family didn't take care of themselves. As much as Sam's money bothered her, mostly because of the blood that she knew was on his hands, he offered. He offered, but she was doing okay now that Eddie had been gone a while and she'd gotten a pay raise. That someone could live like that and not offer a little help...

"They haven't done anything." Catherine stepped inside and continued quietly as the door shut. "More specifically, something's been done to them. I'm afraid that I have to tell you that William is dead." Dead, massacred, ripped apart.

"Oh." Oh. No 'oh, god', no horror or quiet, and that bothered Catherine. Dorothy frowned and looked up at the ceiling as she shook her head. "Please, sit down. Where's Iantine? They're never apart."

"Will was with a friend. Iantine was getting some sleep. They, ah..." She wondered if Dorothy knew anything about the chosen profession of her adopted relatives. "I'm afraid that it wasn't very pleasant. Apparently, Iantine called the police, said he had a feeling...."

"He would have. They were identical twins. They were... very very close. I never believed in any of that 'psychic twins' mumbo jumbo until I met them." She wrinkled her nose. "My aunt and uncle took them in as babies. Thomas was quite a bit older than them, and when his parents died in that accident, they... ended up with everyone but him until he finished college. They even stayed with us for a while. Half the time they talked with little..." Dorothy wiggled her eyebrows while she sat down in the high-backed leather chair, gesturing Catherine towards the sofa. "Little eyebrow gestures."

If Catherine hadn't seen the twins' eyebrows, she'd have been at least moderately worried about that somehow. The pictures on the wall revealed that the family had some fairly expressive brows. "Yes, well. We were a little uncertain about that, but it seems to have been a fairly accurate way of communication. Iantine dialed 911 and we went to the hotel where William was supposed to be going. Unfortunately, we were too late to be of any assistance."

"One of his johns finally cut him up," Dorothy seemed to guess quietly, shaking her head slightly. "Where's Iantine now? He should be on a suicide watch. He and Will, and Thomas, it..."

"Yes." Yes, that was something. Yes to both questions. At least she knew, and that made things a little easier. "We're not exactly sure that it was a john. There was another young man with him," and she wasn't going to use that word, no. "They were both.... There was a lot of damage. There are signs that this could be something that will continue. Escalate."

"I'm afraid I don't know many of their friends." She paused, and crossed her legs at the knee. "I'm sure I sound callous, but they put me to my wit's end after Thomas's death. I tried a rehab program for them, but they didn't stay there. They just wanted to stay high. They came here, sometimes."

That sounded familiar; sounded like Greg Sanders. "Right now, Iantine's in a rehab program under suicide watch. What I need to know is... who do you know who might be able to help us, or might point us in a better direction?"

"There was a boy they let sleep in their car. I think his name was... Gregory. He stayed with a mister..." Dorothy was frowning in concentration, and exhaled in a puff. "Grickom, I think. There was a man they went to for... you know, and he's a pharmacist at some small place off of the strip. It's on the corner of Main and Lakewood, I'm not sure what it's called. I only know because he called me once and didn't want them to drive home. In this area, there's only myself and Thomas's daughter."

Well. They had two out of three, but the third was at least somewhere to go. "Can you get me her name and address?" Catherine requested. "Gregory was the other young man who was assaulted."

"Oh. And Mr. Greckom or the pharmacist?" Dorothy started to stand up. "I'll have to get out my address book."

"One of our other agents is checking in with the pharmacist. Mr. Greckom was on duty at the time and isn't a viable suspect. We appreciate your help." Mr. Greckom was a vastly amusing thought in its own way.

Greckom. Gil didn't seem like a Greckom, and it was funny how the people who knew Greg knew him at least vaguely. The twins knew him as the old guy or, apparently, Mr. Greckom. "I want to help. All Iantine has now with Will gone is himself. They depended on Thomas so much..." She was shaking her head as she headed into the dining room, and opened a bureau drawer.

"Is there someone who might be able to tell me more about Thomas and the twins? Maybe tell us what it was like with them, or give us some kind of clue as to where they might have gone for assistance outside of the people you mentioned?" Assistance, or perhaps someone to lead them to their deaths. Catherine wasn't sure why she felt that way. Just a hunch.

"No, I'm afraid I can't think of anyone. Thomas..." Dorothy turned around, lips pursed. "Thomas gave up everything for those boys. He was engaged, and he broke it off because they didn't like her much, or vice v... no, no, I'm fairly sure he broke it off because she didn't like them. Well, whatever the case, they were each other's lives. Thomas was always 'Will this' and 'Iantine that', Which was funny because they were shy as church mice whenever I saw them. Of course, we all had our suspicions about what some of our uncles did to them. Not my father, but his mother's brothers."

Oh. "And do you have information on where we could locate some of them, as well, perhaps? Or at least a name, something...?" Something solid, something that she could trace. Family was always the first answer, family and friends, because they were the ones most likely to be the guilty parties.

"They're in Wisconsin. And I think, oh, god, Mikhail's somewhere back in the Ukraine." She waved a hand, but she was holding an address book. "There's only Thomas's daughter that I can think of. She's rooming in this apartment with some friends."

At least Dorothy seemed to be somewhat helpful. That was something to consider, one way or the other. "We really appreciate your help. I'm sorry to have to give you such bad news." Even if Dorothy had apparently felt that it was inevitable, anyway.

"I've been expecting it," she shrugged. "If I could have the name of the hospital where Iantine is, I'd appreciate it. I wouldn't tell Mari. She never liked them anyway, so if she goes to see him, I can't see her saying anything very constructive to the poor boy."

That caught Catherine's attention. "Iantine seems like a fairly likable sort of guy. Any particular reason...?" Considering Dorothy's suspicions about the uncles, it gave Catherine a few things to think about in regards to Mari and the possibility that the twins might have turned around and done the same to someone else.

It wasn't unheard of, and although it was sad, it happened. Bad things happened and people turned around and perpetuated the crime despite all reason. Dorothy handed Catherine her address book, open to Mari's address. "Thomas left her with her mother's family after her mother died. He had... very little to do with her because his brothers were his life."

The sound of that was at least moderately... Well. Catherine was pretty sure that it was at least as pervy as what Dorothy implied about the uncles. It was starting to look like the case where the daughter who was the mother had killed the father-cum-grandfather and the entire remainder of the household. "Right." Right, and Catherine pulled out her notebook to jot down the address.

Dorothy just gave a tight smile, watching her. "Thank you. For working this. For getting Iantine help." Where she probably had already tried, but one more shot couldn't hurt, right?

Gil probably thought so, too. Maybe that was why Catherine really wanted it to work. "I hope it works. For his sake." Catherine didn't want to make any bets on it, though, not if his brother was dead, not the way things sounded.

After all, things went 'right' so very seldom. Dorothy nodded, and took the address book back after Catherine had written down the address. "I do, too. What's the name of the center he's in?"

"I really can't give out that information. I'm sure you understand why." If it wasn't just random, then Catherine wasn't about to endanger the rest of the new state mental facility that way.

Everyone was a suspect until she had a better idea of what was going on. Dorothy's mouth compressed for a moment, but she nodded. "Of course."

"Of course." Catherine smiled at her, and she knew that the other woman would be on her cell the minute she stepped out the door. There were only so many places he could be, after all.

She really hoped that the folks at Rawson-Neal were up on their HIPAA regulations. "Thank you very much. We'll let you know as soon as there's further news."

"Thank you. I appreciate your coming over here to discuss this with me." And now Catherine was being herded to the door. It was subtle, but the fact that Dorothy wanted her out was obvious, and Catherine was glad to go.

"Thanks again," she murmured as Dorothy opened up the door and she headed out to her car. They had a lead on the family now, could look into Dorothy Carter and this Mari and some of the uncles. It was a starting place.

Now if only she could manage to stay out of the way of Gil's pissy little passive aggressive war at the office, maybe she could get something done.

~*~*~*~

He'd needed an easy, meticulous case. That was what he'd gotten, a case with more evidence than he knew what to do with except process process process. It was straight forward, too, and while he halfway wanted acrobatics for his mind, the woman had confessed to blowing out her cheating husband's brains.

The evidence was just for when she eventually retracted that statement under the advisement of her lawyer and claimed police brutality or something, like Gil could guess she would. It was the same old story; twenty years or so of marriage, her husband had cheated multiple times and she had forgiven him every time until the last one.

Gil would never understand that sort of human nature. What would possess a man to do a thing like that? And what would possess a family member to do that, to think that her sister would forgive her for the act of running around with her husband? Gil supposed she could count herself lucky that her sister hadn't shot her instead of the husband, but it didn't bring anyone back to life, and it didn't solve things.

Those questions were more Catherine questions than ones he usually asked. The why, that deeper why that went past motive, didn't matter to him. Even motive was the purview of the police, but his mind was wandering and he was tired and there were so many photographs of blood spatter.

He had time to fill a plaster skull with spoiled blood and recreate the splatter pattern, he supposed. If he was lucky, he'd walk by Conrad's office and the door would be open. He could stuff a paper towel full of rotting blood into an inconspicuous space and make him suffer.

Conrad deserved to suffer. None of this was anything that wouldn't wait, and Gil didn't need to be at work nearly as badly as he needed to be with Greg. A secondary infection had set in, and they were dosing him with some very high-powered antibiotics. They were also very carefully weaning him off of pain medication, and that had been rough. Greg looked pinched and thin now where before he'd always seemed open, slender, artwork in motion. Now he seemed tired and like he was -- well, and he was, he was going through withdrawal, but he looked like it, looked like he was in pain. That secondary infection was the dangerous thing they'd all been hoping wouldn't happen, and Greg was going to have to stay in the hospital even longer than Gil had been prepared for him to be there. Greg didn't want to be in the hospital anymore, not matter what Gil brought when he came by.

It wasn't that he complained or whined. He only smiled for Gil, though, and the nurses said he spent most of the day staring at the walls or sleeping instead of watching the portable DVD player or reading one of the books he had brought.

It was the wrong tactic, Gil knew, but it was the only one he could manage when he wasn't there when Greg was usually awake. He tried to stay there, tried to visit as much as he could around the work hours, except it always felt like stolen time. He was borrowing from his own sleep as it was, and the moment he tried to clock out early, Conrad would be calling him.

So Gil worked filling a plaster head with blood, and maybe he was a little sloppy with it in his workspace. He didn't care who gagged walking by. He'd already signed a gun out from Bobby that matched it. He'd just keep going through the motions, making things work as well as he could and irritating the hell out of Conrad as much as humanly possible.

The day before yesterday, he had let loose a small glass almost full of ants just inside Conrad's door. Tomorrow, he planned to try something a bit larger. Perhaps a few grandaddy longlegs.

Conrad hated spiders and screamed like a girl when he saw them.

It was petty, yes, and it was childish, but Ecklie had started it -- which Gil also admitted was childish of him to see it that way -- and he was going to continue claiming innocence if anyone confronted him. So far, no one had done.

Gil plugged the bottom of the head and stood back eyeing the platform where he was going to secure it. He needed someone a little shorter to pull the trigger.

Sara.

She had the misfortune to pass by at exactly the wrong moment and she was a lot closer to the wife's height than his own. She hadn't done anything to make him cranky, but still... She'd do.

"Sara." That deer-in-the-headlights look was one he had often thought that he should have perfected by now, the one he probably got every time she smiled at him or flirted and asked him out to dinner. Now it was just at the edges of her own eyes. "Sara, do you mind if I use you for an experiment?"

"Sure." That gap-toothed smile was nervous, just a little twitchy. Maybe it was the scent of blood. Then again, it might be that now she knew a lot more about Gil than she had ever known before. "What've you got?"

"I have a female suspect and a male victim of that," and he pointed to the head, before offering her a gun. "That height. If you could just fire through his forehead, please."

"Wow. Take all of my aggressions out on his plaster head? No problem." She took the gun with one hand and snagged a pair of earmuffs with another, sliding them on with care. "Loaded and ready to go... okay..."

Gil could see her counting in her head, aiming, and then she pulled the trigger after yelling, "Firing one!" loud enough to make Gil flinch just from her yell.

And the head splattered just like Gil knew it would. But that splatter was satisfying, the misting that hit the gun and them both. The smell of it was going to make the entire lab twitch for the rest of the night, and most of the morning if he knew the day shift.

"Well." Sara pulled off the ear mufflers and cleared her throat. "That was satisfying."

It was, and Gil took the gun gingerly so he could start to photograph the fruit of the experiment. "It was. Thank you. This will add to the DA's case."

"Well, that is our job." She paused, shifting from one foot to another. "After all, it's, ah, not like you just enjoy torturing all of us with the smell or anything."

"Why would you think that?" Gil laid the gun down, with a ruler, and started to photograph it. "It's just that you're not on my case." Or any of his cases. He'd been working for over a week and a half now by himself because everyone had been sucked into the serial one way or another. Even Warrick had teased him about it a little, and that was just...

Maybe, maybe the straw that was making the camel think seriously about kicking someone.

Like Conrad. Definitely leaving bloody rags in his office. And spiders. It didn't even matter to him that it was kind of mean to the spiders.

"Yeah, I know. We're trying really hard, Griss. I know it's probably worrying you a lot...."

That didn't even start to explain it, because he had a gnawing concern that someone was going to finish off the job, just in case Greg hadn't been as high as he indicated, just in case Greg might remember something. Serials didn't tend to leave behind survivors. Sprees didn't leave behind many survivors, and Gil didn't even know where the case was going anymore.

He shrugged his shoulders and took a few more photographs, turning the gun over, leaning so he could get a shot of the spatter on the muzzle. "I recused myself, Sara. I'm sure you're all handling it well."

"Well, I know that, just..." She cleared her throat. "It's all just so strange. I mean, considering who you are, and who he is..."

Who Greg was. What Greg was, more likely, and what did Sara really know about what Greg was? Greg was... so many things. Things Gil hadn't expected, really.

Greg was funny and intelligent and good company on good days, tired and reaching not to be a burden on his bad days, trying so hard to seem perfect for Gil. He twitched an eyebrow at her, and turned to start to photograph the head and the wall beyond. "I know you've all made your assumptions. He's a friend." And in light of that statement, Gil had been a very poor friend up until someone had tried to kill Greg.

"Okay." And she didn't believe that, not any more than the rest of them did, but that was all right. None of them had to believe him, not about anything. They just had to do their job and let him do his, which had its upside, that much was certain. They didn't ask him about Greg, didn't ask if he paid him or if Greg offered sex in return for somewhere to sleep at night.

Gil was pretty sure Jim was responsible for that, saying that he had asked those questions even if he hadn't, not really. If he had, he would've gotten questionable looks from Jim, looks of vague disbelief, because there had to be something going on there.

But there wasn't. Gil had just kissed him lightly a couple of times while he'd been in the hospital. Never before that, and no matter how much Gil wanted to defend himself, there was no point. They weren't listening.

They weren't going to listen. Ever.

"So." Sara was obviously getting a little uncomfortable. "Um. I've got to get over to trace. We have a possible connection, and Hodges is working on it."

"Great." Great, and he didn't want to hear any more about it than he already didn't know, because it was maddening. "Thanks for the help, Sara." Gil lifted the camera to his eye again, and started to take photographs, better ones. He needed to hold a ruler up for a good measurement of the spatter. He needed to get out of there and go back to the hospital. He needed to make sure that the cops outside the door were still there, and that Greg was doing what he was supposed to do, lying carefully in the bed and not even getting up to pee.

They had taken out the catheter. Once the infection set in, though, they had put it back in, because they hadn't wanted him moving around much. That had been three days ago, and Greg was still in bed.

Maybe he should stop and pick up something for both of them to watch.

He wasn't sure what Greg would want to watch, other than something diversionary. So Gil went about taking the photographs, measuring, making sure everything was perfect and correct on his end, well documented, and tried to remember what DVDs of his Greg had shown the most interest in.

Maybe he'd take one of the documentary sets....

~*~*~*~

"Definitely not the same guy."

Nick grinned at the way Sara was looking, distinctly gimlet-eyed in his direction. "Okay, so, if it's not the same guy, who is it, exactly?" she asked him. "And how did you find out?"

"The one you're working? Not the same case with the hookers in the hotel room. The knife that Ecklie recovered actually had a print on it, and your guy? Has a dossier and boarded a plane that landed in Vegas after the hotel killing." It was something, and at least in working the two cases as one Nick had been able to play with the case that had more evidence for it.

"...you're kidding me, right?" They'd had that knife in custody for a couple of weeks, but they'd been a lot more interested in the blood on it and searching for trace. Finding the partial print along the thick bottom ridge of the blade had been a one-shot barely there possibility.

"Nope. It looks like he..." Nick gestured, thumb stretched out against where the back side of the blade was. "Braced his knife while he did the carving, before he chucked it. That was where the print was. I fumed it on a whim."

"Wow. That's pretty impressive." She seemed to believe it, too, peering at the wide part of the blade. "So, is Mississippi hunting him down for us? I'd kind of like to know why he flew into Vegas just to kill a blond hustler."

Nick watched her take the evidence bag from his hand, and nodded while she peered at it. "Yeah, well. That'd answer everything for your case, but it still leaves mine dead in the water. But at least it doesn't seem to be a serial, since..."

"Since nobody's died since then," Sara said, and it made him want to knock on wood, just in case. "And, uh, you know. That Sanders guy seems to be doing okay. I let Griss borrow some DVDs to take to the hospital with him."

He was not going to be curious, he was going to be a good nose to the grindstone CSI and he was not... "What DVDs?"

"Um. Stargate SG1. He said something about Archie not being willing to part with any of his Trek ones. Even Next Generation. Apparently, there's been some craving for sci-fi." Her nose wrinkled a little. Nick knew she only watched for the pretty boys.

At least, that was what he hoped. Because if Grissom was going to Archie, that was... that was geeky. Geeky and hookers didn't mix in Nick's head, but Kristy had seemed like she'd been interested in fashion and... chick things and school, before her pimp had killed her, and that made Nick's head hurt a little.

After all, it wasn't as if all people who did that for a living were chick-things obsessed. "Oh, well, I guess that means he's doing better. You think that might mean less unrecognizable stuff in our fridge?"

The doubtful expression on Sara's face said it all. "Somehow? I sincerely doubt it. Hey, though, it could be worse. Apparently? Spiders have set up a regular colony of some sort in Ecklie's office. So I hear, anyway."

It made Nick feel a little nervous and he shook his head. "Wow, that's suspicious. I'm amazing that Grissom hasn't gallantly offered to rescue them. I mean, they're gonna get covered in Raid, whatever they are."

"Well, they're apparently eating the ants that magically found their way in the week before. We won't even talk about the smell." Yeah, well, they wouldn't talk about that no matter how damn funny it actually was. Who'd have ever thought Grissom would be that vindictive?

Not -- well, maybe Catherine. It had always been so subtle, though, like when he picked people for experiments or gave them the crappy dirtiest jobs at a scene. Really subtle, like was he picking on you, or...? But this was hammer over the head subtle, because Ecklie wasn't letting him take time off until the case Nick was working on wasn't the top priority any more. Who would have even expected Grissom to get upset about not being able to take time off? Maybe it was the principle of the thing. Grissom definitely didn't like people interfering with the way he did things. "No, we're not going to talk about the smell," Nick agreed quietly. "Except that it's bad and rancid blood reminds me a lot of bleach. So, uh. Good luck with your case."

"Thanks, Nicky. Speaking of cases..." Sara looked up, head tilting to the side. "How's yours going? I mean, you know, maybe getting closer to a solution would make Grissom a little less...." Bitchy, irritated and generally scary to be around. Not so much scary, Nick supposed, as unpredictable. More so than usual.

"It's going nowhere. No trace, no fibers, no hair, no useful videotape. Catherine was still hunting down Kensington's family members. But we've got... pictures of Sanders and Kensington going into the hotel together. There's no way to know who'd passed through the lobby in the hours before and was the person they'd met. The room was registered to a dead guy, so..."

"So you're looking at a dead end until he makes another move." It was inevitable that there would be another murder. That was how these things went. Murders that grisly were rarely singular. There was always another one.

It was really just a matter of time, and Nick didn't like the notion that time might be against them. By the very virtue of what was being done, time was against them. Time meant another murder, and not all serial killers hit and hit again and hit again. Some of them went for years, stretched it out. Got sated and laid in wait for a while, and that bothered Nick. That it was probably just a regular-seeming joe, out there functioning in society. Like the man from the copy store at that college.

"Right. I'm going to meet up with Catherine and compare notes. She thinks it's the family angle, but... I don't know."

"Not suspicious?" Sara asked.

"Just not caring. You know? I can't figure that out. Never have been able to. I mean, you know, I'm over here in Vegas, but my sisters all have a morning they call to talk, and my brother brings his kids every year now that they're all old enough to come. It's just... how things are, you know?" Yeah. Families that didn't care really kind of boggled Nick, no matter how many times he saw them.

The way Sara looked at him implied that she understood too much about it. "Just because they seem like they don't care doesn't mean they didn't do it."

"Or that they did do it. We've seen families that did seem to care that did do it. Remember that mother who killed her little girl? Or that brother who poisoned his sister..." Nick shook his head a little, and took a step back from Sara. "Anyway. We're just following what we can before we shelve the case for a while. I'm going to meet up with her and see what's been discovered on the family angle. Good luck with the thumbprint guy."

"Yeah. I'm sure he'll be a real joy to talk to when they get him up here. You have fun with the family," Sara said, and then turned away to go back to whatever she'd been working on. It had looked like trace, but he wasn't sure and he hadn't asked. It was probably stuff they'd combed out of the DB's hair. Sara was probably going to stare at the knife and wonder why they hadn't thought of fuming it, so Nick figured it was best to leave her be for a while and hunt down Catherine.

Catherine had been pretty busy on the people end of things. Nick had been back in the lab for quite a while since he had nearly died in a box in the ground, but he still wasn't comfortable dealing with human beings outside of the lab so much. There was always a sneaking suspicion in the back of his head that someone somewhere might have it in their head to do the same thing to him, or maybe something even worse. That possibility was enough to make him hide in the lab for the rest of his life.

Maybe. He was working his way towards getting out more, towards trusting himself not to panic at scenes. The evidence itself tended not to be what would put him in another bad place, so he was all right with it.

Catherine could do the people work for him for a while, at least the live ones. He was weirdly okay with the dead ones.

"Hey, Nicky! I've got a lead!" Speak of the devil and she appeared, or something like that.

"Great. I just busted the other case wide open, so..." Nick walked over towards her with probably more than a hint of interest in his step. "So, tell me about it."

"Wow. You solved Sara's case?" They'd managed to switch everything out equitably so that they were happy with the case they had to start with, and that was a damn good thing. Nick didn't think Sara would have been happy to see the way Gil's thumb rubbed so lightly against his boyfriend's (hooker's?) hand. "Impressive."

"Yeah, well." Nick cleared his throat. "It was Warrick's idea to fume it, but I did it, and then the print lab paged, so... Man, I'm just glad some case is moving that isn't being steamrolled by Grissom."

"Yeah." Yeah, because Griss had solved three cases since last week, one right after the other, like some kind of scary obsessed robot. "Well... I'm surprised. I thought there wasn't a print on that knife? Oh. Anyway. Our case. Mari Bournemouth? Her alibi isn't exactly holding water."

"That's..." Nick twisted a little to fall into pace with Catherine as they headed down the hallway, to only Catherine Knew Where. "That's Kensington's daughter? The twin's niece?"

Catherine's brows raised. "Illegitimate daughter. There was some talk of coercion, apparently he was in the hospital recovering from surgery at the time of conception and everybody doubted it was his. DNA proved otherwise. Family rumor claims he swore to his dying day that he didn't know how he ever got a daughter."

"Oh. Huh." Nick's eyebrows lifted a little as he tried to get his mind around that. DNA proved otherwise, post surgery. "Turkey baster conception? Some nurse thought he was really hot?"

"Candy striper." Oh. Yeah. That made Nick just a little queasy. "I can only imagine how she did it, and I really don't want to think about it too hard. In any case, she said she was at a meeting, WLVU's radio station. Apparently, they weren't having one that early in the morning."

"Has she been confronted about that?" And had an officer gone around to collect her? There was a good chance that she really couldn't remember or she'd gotten her dates mixed up. A lot of college kids went through life in a haze, from what Nick recalled of his own haze, and fish.

The way Catherine grinned at him said it all. "O'Reilly was going around to see if he could lay hands on her schedule, get her up here. You gonna stick around and see where it goes?"

"I might as well." Nick stopped, and twisted a little to veer towards the break room. "But I need coffee first. Too many doubles in a row are killing me. Who's signing off on our overtime?"

"Ecklie." She tossed him a smirk. "I think he's starting to worry that the next set of bugs will be poisonous and out for his blood."

Heck, and maybe they would be. It was strange not to work with their supervisor, not to see Grissom get excited over twists in the case, but he was distracted and unhappy and...

Actually pretty damn human, and that was maybe the surprising bit. "Yeah, well, soon he'll be after all of our blood."

"Not mine, buddy boy." Catherine winked, a flirtatious move that Nick knew she didn't mean. Warrick had pretty much burned her, he was sure. "I know how to get out of his way. Now, c'mon. Let's walk across the street for coffee. I saw Sara near the pot."

That meant that Catherine probably didn't want to have to be supervisorial for a while. Nick could go with that. One big cup of decadent coffee, froth and sugar and artificial flavor and all. "Okay. Hey, I'll buy. Is the detective going to page you when...?"

"Bingo." The way she smiled at him was pleased, pleased with herself, pleased with him. Both were pretty good. They were livable. "C'mon, Nicky. Let's go get ourselves a reason to stay awake just a little longer."

It sounded like a plan and it sounded a little like there was a chance in hell that maybe things could go back to normal in the lab soon. Just working cases and solving them, proving them, and none of the other stuff in the way. Nick had enough stuff in his way.

~*~*~*~

Greg had never been so glad to see someone in his life.

It wasn't just because it was Gil, although that was usually the case. He loved seeing Gil, loved knowing that he was there, that everything was okay. Even before this, seeing Gil had made him feel optimistic. Call it idiocy, maybe, or love. It amounted to about the same thing, in the end, if he thought about it.

These days, it amounted to desperation for distraction. Distraction for his fading high, distraction for the amount of pain he was in. His back was killing him, pain shooting all the way down to his heels, and his front... Well, that was actually worse. At least he was used to coming down off of his high to the pain from shattered disc and crushed sciatic nerve.

He wasn't used to the feeling that someone had taken a hand blender and stuck it right into his stomach before putting the setting on 'mash'. What didn't hurt felt tight, and the painkillers they had him on were horrible, weak. He wasn't sure how much worse it was because he was still going through cold-turkey withdrawal, still getting used to not having what he needed and wanted to have.

The other night he'd overheard Gil discussing his back with a doctor, something about surgery. On one hand, surgery was hell and Greg was in enough of it, thank you very much, and on the other hand, surgery meant painkillers.

Painkillers meant joy, or at least a damn good helping of not-hurting-like-this. He hadn't ever thought he'd be the kind of guy who was that desperate for the pain to stop, but then Greg had never thought of himself as the kind of guy who hid things from himself. He was man enough to know he'd do a hell of a lot to stop hurting again. High would be nice, but just having the pain stop would be better.

"Hey." He smiled sleepily at Gil. It was so good to see him. Had he already thought that?

Probably. Gil had been putting his jacket over the back of his chair, and smiled at Greg as he sat down. "Hi. How're you today?"

"I've been a lot worse." He could smile at that, because it was true. He'd been lots worse, and right now, he was doing okay. He hurt, his brain felt like it was on fire with wanting drugs, his foot was twitching because of the nerve damage, but he was alive, and Gil was visiting. "How're you?"

"Better." Better, Greg guessed, because he was here with him and not at work, whatever was going on there. "They're looking at Will and Iantine's family, in the case."

He couldn't help making a face. He really couldn't. "They had this one cousin who'd let them sleep at her place now and then when they were getting clean. Tried to help them stay that way, too. She might know something."

"I think they've already spoken to her." And Gil didn't comment on their state of cleanness or uncleanness, highness or not-highness. "It... doesn't look like a serial. It looks like it was personal."

"So I just... got in the way." Yeah. Yeah, Greg did that a lot. Maybe his name should have just been that, in fact, and for a moment he drifted on the thought and on the pain that was filtering through him. "Huh. But Will and Ian... they've never hurt anybody. They were just..." All sweet and tender and desperately sad.

"I know. They were your friends." Gil's fingers shifted, took Greg's hand in his. They fit like a lock and a key, and Greg was willing to be that wasn't the only thing that would got together so nicely if he ever got the chance. "Iantine has been showing improvement."

Good. Good, because Greg really hadn't thought Ian would make it without Will. He was surprised that he hadn't managed to do something pretty terrible to himself yet. "That's kind of a surprise."

"He's on a dose of lithium after they put him through detox. They did it in forty-eight hours." While Greg was going on two weeks. Plus.

Life was a real bitch sometimes.

"Suicide?" he asked finally, fidgeting himself into a slightly more comfortable position, for what it was worth. "Because they'll have to watch him a long time." Will and Ian had tried to commit suicide together on several occasions, leaving long, rambling letters about Thomas behind them. That was... one really weird family relationship, and Greg knew too much about those from personal experience to think about it too hard. With Will gone, too, there was no doubt in his mind that Iantine wouldn't want to keep on living. Not a pretty thought, no, not pleasant at all, but... unfortunately true.

Expected. Greg expected it now that Will was gone, expected it from the way they'd talked lovingly about their brother. It was fucked up, but it had held them together for so long and they missed him.

Greg didn't miss anyone in his family who'd done that to him. "They have him on a watch until there's a steady level of the lithium in his bloodstream. It's a good place, and he's probably going to be there for a while."

"Yeah." Yeah, but no matter how long he was there, Greg didn't think it would make a difference. A guy had to want to get better to actually get there, and Ian wouldn't really want to get better.

Greg did. Well, sometimes he did. When the pain was better, when Gil was there, and touching his hand and making things seem like they could be all right one day. Like he was worth the effort, even though he really wasn't. It was a nice feeling. If he had that feeling every day...

Yeah, well. His dad had said that he should wish in one hand and shit in the other, see which one filled up first. That was pretty much the place where they were at the moment. Gil was peering at him, probably reading his expressions, and he squeezed Greg's hand a little. "Hey. You're going to be okay, too. I've been trying to find places that could help you... if you want to."

If he wanted to. God, he wanted to, wanted to for Gil, wanted things to go right for himself, but he couldn't let Gil do that for him. Greg knew the kind of cost attached to the sort of help he'd need, and he knew it was something that had to come out of pocket. He could probably cook up enough meth or something to afford it if his hands wouldn't shake so bad when he did it that he fucked up and killed himself. Hell, he'd probably end up taking it and forget that he was going to sell it. "I can't let you do that. I know how much that kind of thing costs." Hell. If the hospital didn't have some kind of indigent care fund, he'd already be dead.

"It..." Gil exhaled, and he looked like he didn't know how to say what he wanted to say. Which really didn't surprise Greg much. Gil would get around to saying it, whatever it was going to be after a little quiet. "I want you to have a chance at living."

And God. That was so sweet, and Greg was so in love. He'd been in love since the moment he'd smiled at Gil and Gil had smiled back, maybe, and that was a hell of a long time. "Would it make you happy?" He couldn't accept it, but he couldn't not accept it, either.

"It would. I don't want you to..." No, that was a negatively oriented statement, and Gil stopped it, tried to rephrase it, but Greg could finish it in his head. Gil didn't want Greg making a living on his back. Gil didn't want Greg to be a whore. "To be hurt any more."

So sweet Greg couldn't bear it anymore. "Okay." Okay, because he really was crazy about Gil, and maybe he could live with the nerve damage, and the disc trouble. Maybe, if he could be good for Gil, maybe.... Maybe a lot of things. "Okay. We'll try it. I've never actually tried stopping before. Well. Before now."

"They don't actually give you much choice in a hospital setting," Gil pointed out ruefully. His thumb slid gently over the tender skin just above Greg's thumb. He kissed the same way, soft and careful, like he was afraid of damaging Greg. "Your doctor mentioned a few possibilities for making your back injury more... bearable."

Wow.

Greg couldn't remember anybody actually just caring that much. Not since his mother had died with his Poppa and Isöaiti, and that had been so long ago that it really didn't bear thinking about. He couldn't remember, and he felt so bad and hurt all over and the hiccough sounded fucking stupid.

"You don't have to agree. I don't want to force you into anything, I just... want you to have the option." Gil didn't shush him, or tsk. He leaned in and brushed his other thumb over Greg's cheek, smearing dampness before it turned into much else, and he stayed close. It was enough to drive Greg over the edge, because he was hurting and he was scared and he was sick, and he was starting to think he'd die in there, stuck in the hospital for the rest of his life.

Once it started, just that little bit, he really couldn't stop; choked breaths, tears, and they surprised him. He really thought he had forgotten how to cry when he was young, but he had forgotten what it was like to have someone care, too. Just to have someone care, no motive, no real sane reason for someone to care about a battered druggie whore, but there Gil was, and fingers were gently touching his shoulders. "It's going to be all right, Greg. You'll see."

He brought up a hand, batted helplessly at his face. "I don't know how it can be." He sounded hoarse, drugged, so completely beyond fucked up that it was really kind of funny. It was funny because even when he was high, he didn't sound so messed up. He sounded clear and amusing, and completely himself.

He was himself when he was high, because he'd been high for so damn long that now he just fell apart and Gil was petting his free hand, folding his fingers around it. "I'm going to try to make it all right."

"Why?" It was a stupid question, and he sounded like a fucking mewling baby. He couldn't help but ask it, though. It was there, it needed asking. "Why are you doing this?"

"I care about you." Maybe, he even loved Greg, but Gil was strange and funny and reserved with words. It was enough that he was there at all.

"I don't know why." And he didn't. Nobody had in so long that it was ridiculous, and Greg was pretty sure he wasn't the kind of guy somebody just cared about. Never had been. "I mean, I'm, I'm a...." Hard word, whore. He didn't know why. He was a druggie and a fucking whore, and had he really thrown everything away for feeling better?

It seemed like it. Once, he'd been in college, full ride, and he'd had so much hope even after all of the fucked up shit in his life, and... And Jesus. But that was what he'd been doing for a while now. "You're a person," Gil cut in, voice quiet. He laid Greg's jittery hand, the one that didn't have the IV, on Greg's chest, his own fingers clasped over it.

"I don't understand." And he might not ever. He probably wouldn't ever, actually, but Gil... Gil wasn't the kind of guy anybody ever really understood. Maybe it was okay if he didn't understand.

"You're fascinating, and you deserve better than you've had. You don't have to understand." Gil probably didn't care if he did or he didn't. He leaned in, kissed Greg's cheek. He'd been almost-blubbering, so he probably looked like a mess. A hospital bed stuck mess. A stinky hospital bed stuck mess.

"I love you." Oh God, he should never, ever have said it, but there it was. "Oh God. I'm so sorry." So sorry for saying it, so sorry for what he was, and he was never, ever going to get it, but at least the stupid crying had settled into something more along the lines of a steady leak.

"Why?" Gil sat back a little, and gave Greg's hand a gentle squeeze. "I think that I... love you, too." And he wasn't sure or he wasn't sure if he wanted to say it, or maybe he had no idea why the mere idea that someone cared about Greg meant so damn much.

"I'm sorry. You don't... You're so..." Good. So much better than that. So wonderful that Greg just didn't understand.

"Old?" Gil offered it at a joke, the edge of his mouth tipping up a little. Sometimes, a smile hit his eyes just right, and that mattered a lot more than what his mouth was doing. Gil could smile a wide smile that meant nothing, and tiny ones that meant everything.

"Perfect." Perfect, and that was crazy but so right. So right, and Greg was just so tired now, hand reaching out and scrambling into Gil's fingers. "Perfect." He cleared his throat, reached up to scrub at his eyes. "Okay." Okay, he'd do whatever he needed to do to make Gil happy.

He was tired, and Gil just leaned in to kiss Greg's fingers, still smiling that tiny smile. "You look tired. You should get some sleep. I can probably find a book around here and bore you back to sleep."

"You should go home. You need to sleep and..." Greg would just drag himself in and out of dozing. He was wearing Gil out, and Gil could use some sleep. If Greg couldn't do more than doze in the hospital, Gil couldn't, either.

"Hey. I can work thirty hours straight at a crime-scene. I'm fine. I get a little sleep before I go in to work." He didn't want to leave Greg there. It was so obvious that it made Greg ache because there were the dayshift nurses that went home at four or so who ignored Greg and then the night nurses didn't.

"Okay." Okay because what else was he going to say? No? He enjoyed having Gil with him, enjoyed the faint touches Gil gave him, and just at the moment, he really didn't want to let go of Gil's fingers. It was selfish but... "We could watch what you brought over."

"Okay. I have sci-fi, and a longer extension cord for the player than the last time. One of my colleagues loaned me Stargate, the series. The AV guy wouldn't part with any Star Trek." Gil winked. He'd already admitted once that he was an old-school Trek fan, Spock and Kirk and rubber foam sets and lame plots.

"See, if I didn't already love you..." Greg sniffed, reaching up and scrubbing a hand over his face. "Could um. Could I have one of those wet wipes?" Yeah, get his face clean, make him feel better. That'd help. A dose of aliens wouldn't hurt, either.

"Sure." Gil leaned over, then stood up, and when he did so, he gathered together everything. The wipe, first, while he plugged in the little DVD player. Gil had told him how he'd had a run-in with a cranky old lady at WalMart to find it. It had been Nick's suggestion, apparently.

Nick seemed like a pretty nice guy. Gil had told him that someone had buried him alive, and that seemed like a scary-ass thing to do to such a nice guy. Greg couldn't imagine living through that and not blowing his head off, but apparently Nick was a pretty strong guy. "So." He cleared his throat, blew his nose in the wet wipe. What the hell. His face was clean, and crying made him snotty. "Um."

"Season one, episode one?" Gil asked, twisting around with the boxed set in hand. He swung the tray over that ended up all of two feet from Greg's face, and set the player on top of it. "I'm not sure if you've ever seen it."

And that, apparently, was enough relationship talk for one morning. Whatever it was. He'd probably have 'breakfast' coming in soon.

Maybe he could share some of his oatmeal and apple sauce with Gil.

Maybe it would taste better if they mixed them together.

"Season one, episode one," Greg agreed, and it was obviously going to be a good morning.

A damn good morning.

~*~*~*~

Mari Bournemouth was tiny, neat as a pin. She had big blue eyes, pale skin, and thin, lovely red brows to match the deep auburn hair that was neatly plaited into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a tiny, pleated skirt and a neat lavender button-down shirt that actually seemed to compliment that shade of red. She looked like something out of a library from twenty years ago, and there was something about the whole thing that made Catherine twitch.

She'd known it was coming, and she was dressed up like a schoolmarm so no one would think she was guilty of it. Hell, Catherine half expected her to pull something out of a bad commercial where she shook her head, her hair came down, and her shirt miraculously ripped open.

It didn't happen. The detective escorted her into the room, and she seemed nervous, but controlled as she sat down.

"Good morning, Miss Bournemouth. We're glad you could come down and talk to us." Even if she made Catherine damn suspicious on so many levels it was ridiculous. There was just something there that she couldn't put her finger on, but she'd find it.

"It's okay. I only have classes three days a week and uhm, this is my lunch break from work." Oh, so maybe she was dressed up as someone's pretty secretary. With the family history that Catherine knew about, not to mention what she didn't know, nothing was going to surprise her. "So, uhm."

"We're just trying to work out a few things in regards to your uncles. As I'm sure you know by now, they were attacked several weeks ago. One of them died in that attack. We're just checking what everyone knows and the location of most of their relatives, what you might have been doing that day." Where she was, because most of the others were accounted for during that particular time period. There were just a few people left. Mari. Her maternal uncle.

"I was, uhm." She looked up, and then back to Catherine and then detective. "I was at a bar the night before. I was supposed to meet some friends there, but they didn't show."

"Would you mind giving us the name of the bar? I mean, it seems like pretty late to be meeting people at a bar. Well, late or early...." Which meant nothing in Vegas, not really. It was a party town, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks out of the year.

"Chico's. It's kind of a college thing." As if Catherine was too old to be familiar with the place, but it probably meant it was a cheap dive with a lot of frat-type boys. "I finished studying, we were all supposed to meet there, but hot date trumps friends every time."

"Mmm, it does that." Not for some women, but that could just be the age difference. "I'll need names and contact information for the friends you were supposed to meet. I'd also like to know where you went when you left." And Nicky would be going back through the video surveillance, because now that they knew what Mari Bournemouth looked like, maybe they'd see her there. They hadn't seen any of the other relatives yet.

God knew those eyebrows were distinctive enough. "I went back to my place. I share a duplex with four other people. Then I got up early to go to a meeting for the WLVU radio station... at least I'm pretty sure it was that morning. It might have been the one after it."

"I'm sure you won't mind giving us their contact information, as well." Catherine smiled at her sweetly, watching the young woman shift ever so faintly in her chair. There was something disturbing about the way those blue eyes peered across the table. Maybe it was the fact that she'd only seen them in pictures of a dead man before now.

They were just like those photographs, so much that it was uncanny and disturbing. "Of course not. It might take me a while to remember their phone-numbers, unless I can use my cell?"

"Go right ahead."

Catherine smiled at her, slow and easy. This was going to be a piece of cake.

Except that it wasn't, and it seemed like every time they pried into her alibi, she evaded, or told something good enough to keep charges from being pressed and good enough to keep them from getting anything like a warrant. Catherine pressed her on when she last saw the uncles.

And Mari replied that she was in college, and if she wanted to hang out with druggies, she could find enough her own age. It was a little discouraging, in a way, but at the same time, Catherine couldn't let go of her suspicions.

When they finally let her go, Nick still hadn't found a single glimpse of her on any of the video surveillance tapes. It wasn't like she had so much as a single parking ticket for them to hold against her, in the long run. She was nice, seemed normal, and she'd never so much as stepped a toe out of line and gotten caught.

Catherine still had that feeling, though.

Brass joked that she should've been a cop because she was the only CSI in the whole city other than Nick (who'd done a turn as a cop and as a paramedic) and Warrick (who Brass called a 'gambler by nature') who got hunches. She followed them to the death, and that was what Catherine was going to do. Somehow.

Maybe if they could find the last missing uncle they could get some answers. Unfortunately, he was more than just a gambler by nature; he was a gambler by compulsion, and no one had seen him in more than a couple of weeks, so he could be almost anywhere, laid up drunk or high or something worse if family rumor held solid.

It really reminded Catherine of those bad Southern literature things she'd had to read in college. They made swinging from a brass pole mundane and safe-seeming. It made Catherine wonder about dead bodies and how it was that no one in the family had snapped and started slaughtering other family members until sweet little Mari showed up. Grew up.

Something kind of scary that tilted the world into a Faultner-esque sideshow, one where brothers fucked brothers, and mothers stole semen, and the byproduct was one completely normal seeming person who couldn't possibly be what she seemed to be. Catherine didn't think there was any way for it to be true, and she should know all about family dysfunction. There was too much there for the facade to be everything to know about the girl.

It was a good facade. Great facade, and Catherine shadowed her out through the doors, and wrote down her license plate number. Maybe the hotel's parking lot security cameras could bring something up for her to place the girl there.

Anything they could get their hands on would be worth whatever it took, because Catherine knew.

She knew.

And by God, she was going to prove it.

~*~*~*~

He really needed sleep.

What Gil wanted most in the world was to go home, crawl into his bed, and pass out. Or even to get Greg in his home, in his bed, and pass out on his very familiar, very comfortable sofa. Anything had to be better than hospital chairs. He was just trying to stay awake long enough for the nurses to change over. Greg would be fine in their hands. He could get home, pass out for five hours, and then shake himself out for another round of work.

He was getting too old to do this on a regular basis. Even a semi-regular basis, really. He was pretty sure that made him too old for Greg, too, but Greg didn't seem to care. He seemed to like Gil just fine, and the fact that he'd held his hand all the way through three episodes and been a hell of a lot more impressed with the really smart science guys than the admittedly hot military types had made Gil smile.

Greg just generally made Gil smile. Even when Greg's jaw went slack and he leaned over to wipe the corner of Greg's mouth, Gil caught himself smiling. Greg being safe mattered. Greg possibly turning things around mattered, and if Gil put all of that effort in for Greg to leave then... then that was okay. It was probably one of the better things Gil had done with his life, as long as Greg went on to live. Didn't matter how or where. So long as he did.

Greg was sleeping now, and the doctor had made rounds nearly an hour previously. He was getting better, fighting the infection. They were planning therapy, talking about ways to get around the problem with the damaged nerves in his back, talking about scrambled eggs for breakfast soon. It was good to think about, good to see happening, and it made Gil want him to be better, made him think about Greg and scrambled eggs, Greg with a wooden spoon in one hand, hair wild and slept in the way he'd been sometimes when he had spent the night with Gil.

Happy and relaxed, even if he was a little high because Gil never shook him down or took his stash when he stayed. It would've been counterproductive and he wanted Greg safe, not scared that Gil was going to turn him in to the police. Just then it felt like there was some vague hope of a future. There was talk about legal pain management and maybe even disc replacements. They made them, carbon metal things, and Gil hadn't had time to read that journal he'd picked up about it.

Maybe sometime soon. Maybe when Greg came home with him, and he got a chance to sleep a little, recover from the weeks of drowsing in a chair at Greg's bedside, from mostly just having Warrick to help him solve cases.

Maybe...

The door pushed open very quietly, waking him up just a little.

He'd been drowsing, drifting. There was something about a space alien life-force sucker something on the screen, but he closed it, turned it off by lifting his hand and shutting the lid. There was a girl there, young, definitely, small, and that surprised Gil because there was no reason for anyone to be there who wasn't a nurse.

They didn't push candy stripers at the homeless, and she wasn't wearing the right clothes for that. "Miss?"

Oh. He recognized that vague gleam in her eye, and it wasn't something he enjoyed seeing. Nobody probably enjoyed seeing that, actually, but he had been on the receiving end of it much too often to really consider that part.

"I'm just here to take care of Mister Sanders." Sweet voice. Scary sweet.

"I'm afraid that's not possible." Gil stood up, moving towards the door, moving to get between her and Greg, and he'd seen that look too many times. Except it didn't stop him from getting in the way again, just like he always did.

Sometimes, Gil honestly thought there was something deeply wrong with him.

"I'm afraid that I'll have to take care of you first, then."

There was something about pain. Sometimes, it didn't register immediately, and then there were days that he looked down and realized there was a knife in his belly.

And maybe he shouldn't have stared, except it suddenly made sense because that, that was the killer, that was the organ remover? That had killed Will and hurt Greg and he had a knife in, in...

He wasn't docile or drugged or sweet, just startled and choking because it hurt but felt thick and numb at the same time, not quite paralyzing. More like he was graying out, more like he'd shocked himself, but he could still move his hands and reached for her throat.

"I'm really very sorry," she murmured sweetly, "but this is something that I have to do. I'm sure you can see that."

"Gil?" Sleepy, drugged, and he could still hear that in Greg's voice even when she pulled the knife out of him. "Oh my... oh my... oh my God. Oh my fucking..."

He'd staggered back against the door, and it was all he could do to stay standing up, a hand on the door knob, trying to lunge at the girl. He was bigger than her, he could just tackle her, just let gravity do it, because everything hurt and his hands were clutching over it like that would help.

"Now, then, Mister Sanders..." It wasn't fair for her to move away from him, and the nurse was calling Greg's room, he could hear them on the speaker. "I need you to tell me where you've put sweet Uncle Iantine..."

"Cahhptan... Br-rass did..." Anything to get her attention away from Greg, even if everything was going light and strange, and he was on the floor? He didn't know how people ran from crime-scenes like that, how they got in cars and drove. It felt like he was choking, like someone had punched in a lung.

Maybe she had and he was bleeding out and...

~*~*~*~

"Get somebody in here now! She has a knife!" Greg was hoping that even the shitty three in the afternoon nurses would come running at that. "She's stabbed Gil! HELP!"

"Shh!" She slapped a hand over his mouth, there and pushing the blankets down the blade sliding over his stomach. "Where's Iantine? I know you put him somewhere!"

"You TOOK MY KIDNEY!" Greg yelped behind her hand, and then he shifted, and then he bit, blood spilling out in little pulses between his teeth.

It was the most disgusting thing he'd ever done in his life, and that was a pretty long list, but that topped it. She screamed, and jerked back, and that was when the nurses almost tripped over Gil's leg. Someone was yelling for the security guard, and Greg hoped that was enough of a distraction. All of that noise and jangle and jingle might make her want to run instead of stop and slit Gil's throat. Or his throat.

Or take another kidney. He was pretty sure that he needed two to live.

She was shrieking, and the nurse was screaming, and wow. That knife was damn scary, but Greg was managing his way out of the bed and onto the floor, his hands scrambling to press the sheets against Gil's body, against the place the knife had gone in.

It was bubbling, and Gil's eyes were open, fluttering, mouth open and sucking in gasps of air. He heard someone yelling for her to drop the knife, drop the knife, but Greg didn't care. It was probably that cop who wasn't always outside of his door like he was supposed to be. Someone needed to stop that bleeding, keep Gil alive, impending shoot out or not. There was blood on his lips, and Greg knew he was dying, he was going to die because that was the way things went for him, people who cared about him died, and he was yelling, frantic, and then someone was pulling him away, pulling him off of Gil, and he didn't want to move, didn't want to get loose. He wanted somebody to help Gil, not have someone pull him away from him.

Except that was how it had to go, because he couldn't exactly go down the hallway with Gil on the gurney or thing that they'd brought out. He was on the floor, and there was probably stuff from his catheter all over, but he could sit there and be a sore, scared mess for a little while. Gil was just like Poppa Olaf and his grandmother and his mother, and Will and probably Ian. Anyone who cared... Ended up flat on their back on a slab, and Gil had joked about that once, months ago. He said they were great for napping on. The head coroner swore by it for cat naps.

Gil was going to die. He was going to die because Greg loved him, and there was nothing he could do about it but sit there in piss and blood, his and Gil's and that girl's, and listen to everything fall apart around him.

~*~*~*~

Sulking kids fidgeted less.

He was lucky that Jim hadn't ripped his head off the minute he'd come in the door. Instead he'd ushered him into his office, and then rushed off to 'answer a page' before he did just that and ended up in jail as a cop-killing cop. He got some coffee, took his time adding Sweet & Lo to the acidic shit they passed off as caffeine, and walked back to his office.

There wasn't any point in saying anything until the door clicked closed behind him, so Jim let the silence stretch, standing in the doorway for a moment before he said anything.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I needed some coffee. I was gone all of two minutes tops, and then I heard this screaming and turned around and took off running." The guy shrugged, his cotton-puff of hair waving at Jim in a way that made him want to hit something, specifically the guy who'd gotten Grissom stabbed by not being where he should be. Jim had really figured that he couldn't get in as much trouble standing outside of a hospital room as he'd gotten into puking his guts out instead of watching Nick.

"We put you there for a reason. We don't put cops on guard outside of a hospital room unless we think something's going to go wrong," Jim snapped. He was waiting to hear that it was okay because Grissom had been there, but Gil didn't carry.

Gil never carried.

"Look. Dr. Grissom was in the room. He's a trained investigator, and they've all got guns, and...."

Right. "Investigator, Michaels. He's an investigator, there in his time off. He wasn't on duty, he was there visiting. You're the cop, and it's your damn job to stand outside of a hospital room if I tell you to stand outside of a hospital room, do you understand?" Jim leaned closer, and slammed his hand down on the tabletop.

"Y-Yes, sir." Sullen answer, yes, but a little scared, too, and Jim was grimly pleased to see the way Michaels folded in on himself. It was good to know that he was still intimidating as hell.

It was good to know he hadn't lost that much. He might have to face losing his best friend, but that had to do with the adorably cute little psychopath they were holding in a jail cell. She'd stuck Grissom in the lung, and Jim would bet that Grissom hadn't seen it coming. Hadn't expected her to stab him and try to get Sanders.

"What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I needed coffee?" That tentative question nearly drove Jim back out of the room, or worse, into his bottom desk drawer. Sometimes, he wondered where they found these idiots. Did they wander in off of the street and just randomly present themselves, or what? "I was only gone two minutes!"

"And in two minutes our suspect managed to sneak into the room you were supposed to be guarding, and tried to kill a CSI. How many damn investigators need to almost end up dead on your watch before it gets into your head?!" Jim was waiting -- whatever the guy said, it didn't matter, Jim had his next words lined up.

"There was nobody on the floor! Just nurses, and the guy, he's a..." Hooker, but at least Michaels had the sense not to say anything about it. He paled and looked at Jim with brows twisted tightly together. "Look, I just... I only leave for coffee, to visit the bathroom..."

"You should have gotten a doctor or a nurse to wait and make sure no one went in. But you know what? You can explain that to IA. I need your badge. The IA officer will be by in half an hour for your statement and your gun." But Jim out held his hand. Man like that didn't deserve his damn badge if he wasn't going to take responsibility for a damn thing he did.

With a sigh, Michaels pulled his badge off of his shirt. "Here." He handed it over, but even that motion made Jim want to hit him. There was something insolent in it, an implication that it wasn't his fault even though it was. "Fine."

It was sulky and childish, and not at all the way Jim knew that disciplined officers should comport themselves. Fromansky had more dignity and devotion to the job than Michaels ever had. "Get out of my office. It'll be returned to you when IA is done." Or not returned, but Jim didn't have to add that. It was all there in his snarl, in the way that he tilted his head and curled his lip, and Michaels seemed to get that. It gave him a slink to his walk, a kind of uncomfortable motion of hip that made Jim feel like a predator on the savannah about to chase something down and eat it alive.

There were days he loved his job.

He loved it and hated it at the same time. At least, at least they had her. At least she hadn't killed Sanders, and maybe, maybe Grissom would be all right. Jim had to hope that things would work out that way even if he was expecting it to all go wrong in the end. It was just sad, and no one ended up on top of things.

Jim slid the badge into his desk drawer. He'd pass it on to IA later. For the time being, he'd just hold onto it.

"Wow. Those look like some pretty deep thoughts there, Jack Handy." Ah. Catherine.

She looked tired, just as tired as he did, faint hollows under her eyes. That wasn't from exhaustion; it was worry, full-fledged, and he couldn't blame her for it.

"Someone took away the mirror that I look at my bad sweater in." Jim lifted his head a little, sat up straighter. "How're things?"

"Been better." She settled down into the chair across from his desk, long legs draped out in front of her as she slumped down so that her head rested against the back of the seat for a moment. "I knew. I knew it was her. I just, I couldn't prove it."

She had a pretty neckline, but Jim wasn't ever going to be the one to say it. "Yeah. I figured it was her. She was too clean-cut. Too, we've been at it long enough to know when someone's guilty. I wish we could've detained her."

"I wish we could have done a lot of things, but we didn't. We couldn't, and now..." Now it was too late because Gil was on a table under a different kind of knife, and their one living victim was probably going to be in the psych ward by the time they went to the hospital again.

That was a shame because Gil had said he'd been doing better, at least according to Catherine. Gil had been avoiding Jim, and that was fine. He could understand, and sometimes Gil needed his space. "Yeah. Maybe someone should go there and lie and tell him we're sure Gil's going to be okay."

"They sedated him." Catherine pushed herself back up in the chair, giving a deep sigh. "It was easier to get the blood and piss off, apparently."

Jim leaned back in his chair, and whistled quietly. "Blood and piss? What happened, his catheter sprang a leak?"

"Yeah, something like that. Apparently, he pulled the tubing out of the bag when he was trying to get out of bed to help Gil, get her off of him." Catherine sighed. "He was cut again, but it wasn't anything like Gil. The knife she used had traces of other blood. We're pretty sure it's the same one she used at the hotel. Nicky finally found her on the HOTEL surveillance feeds, by the way."

"Great. How many minutes after she cut Gil up like a Christmas ham?" That was just how it went with them, just their luck. At least, sometimes, they got things in time, in order. Like when they'd found the weight triggers on Nick's box. That was good timing for once. The rest of the time...

Catherine grimaced. "I know, but at least he found her, so we can prove that she was there beyond the knife."

"That's a start." Jim leaned forwards against the edge of his desk, elbows on top of the coffee-stained blotter. "How's Gil?"

"They haven't called to let us know he's out of surgery yet. You wanna get out of here? Go out, get some coffee. Look lost in the hospital waiting rooms?" Catherine suggested.

"Yeah. Someone should." They were his friends, and Catherine would be the first person to know when he got out of surgery. Hopefully things would work out okay, and Jim could stop feeling bad for the kid, could stop feeling bad about the whole damn case. Could stop trying not to think about the phone call he'd gotten about Iantine Kensington when all of that other shit had been happening.

"Yeah. C'mon. I'll buy the coffee. I'd bet anything that the cafeteria's probably still open. We could scrounge up some eggs and a couple of bagels, too." Catherine leaned forwards, standing up slowly.

It got Jim up, walking, away from the desk and too many hours and too many worries and too many incompetent people. "Cath, have you eaten in that cafeteria? You might want to hope that it's closed..."

"So long as it's not the green beans, I think we'll be okay," she offered. "But hey. We can run past McDonald's just as well. Let me get my purse. You're driving," Catherine informed him, and followed him out the door.

"I'm glad you let me volunteer," Jim deadpanned. It was a shame that she was following him out the door and not the other way around.

His ass wasn't half as nice to look at.

~*~*~*~

The world was nicely swimmy.

The fact that his automatic reaction, consideration, was that Greg felt like this all the time, made him want to giggle. If he didn't hurt, and he could concentrate longer than a few seconds at a time, he might give it a shot. "Hi."

Either he was dead and it was the afterlife, albeit in a form that he didn't generally believe it existed in, or Greg was okay. Greg was also shorter than Gil seemed to recall, but there was possibly a chair involved, and he couldn't quite lean to peek over even if he tried to move a little. "Are you real?"

"I am so real." Real and grinning, that wide perfect smile that made Gil smile back in response. "I'm so real and you're here, and you're okay, and that's the best thing ever."

"I think I'm on the good meds." And there was a tube up his nose. Talking hurt, breathing hurt, but it was a dull ache, like he'd fallen asleep with a few encyclopedia books on his chest. It was okay, even if he felt short of air. It wasn't strangling bad. "Hi."

"Hi." Greg reached up and touched his chin, index finger caressing over the dimple there. "You should probably close your eyes. Get some sleep. Your lung collapsed, but they've got you all fixed up now."

"Wondered why I couldn't breathe." Everything had gone funny and tight and gray, and he remembered the horrible feeling of seeing her head for Greg. "You're okay?" As okay as he could be when he was missing inside bits and wasn't he supposed to be in a hospital bed, too? Those chairs weren't good for people. They could get a guy stabbed.

"They let me up," Greg offered him. "I was worried about you. Me, I'm pretty much okay. Nine stitches, but they gave me something to numb it up. That was pretty good. I think they gave you lots better stuff, though. You were mumbling something earlier about jelly beans."

"I like them." Gil offered it with what felt like a huge smile, but he wasn't sure. He'd dreamed earlier that he'd sneezed, and the room had exploded. At least, he half-remembered a dream like that, and just then the only thing Gil could be sure of was that the room had not exploded, and Greg was still there. Gil tried to move his hands, tried to figure out where they were in correlation to the rest of him.

"I promise to bring you some, then." That was sweet. Very sweet. Gil really liked jelly beans, especially Jelly Bellies. He had a great fondness for the buttered popcorn flavor. "I promise to bring you popcorn, then."

He just wasn't sure how he'd said it aloud quite like that, or when he'd said it aloud. Gil peered at Greg, wondering for a moment if Greg could read his mind, and somehow Greg's fingers found his hand instead of his chin. "I'm glad you're good. Popcorn's nice."

"Popcorn's really nice. Coffee's nicer. They say you're gonna be here for a week or so, and then they'll let you go. You'll have to stay home, though. Lots of time spent in bed recovering."

"I only have one bed. Was gonna take the sofa." He was trying to be chivalrous, but now, well, now it worked out well, and he and Greg could rest together and he wouldn't have to juggle work and sleep again. Yay.

"The fact that you're saying that out loud makes me smile. You should close your eyes." Greg was caressing his wrist, and he could feel it. So good. "Close your eyes and get some rest."

Gil turned his hand a little, towards that touch. "Okay. If you rest, too. No sneaking off on me or checking yourself out early. You'd need my house keys, and it's a long walk." His eyes closed themselves for a moment, a microsleep where everything went dark and resettled open after a second.

Catherine was sitting in a chair near where Greg had been just a second before. That was actually kind of creepy.

"You look pretty good for a man who's been stabbed in the lung. One of these days, I'm going to get a warning tattooed on the backs of your eyelids to remind you to be careful around people like Mari Bournemouth."

"But if I close my eyes, I couldn't see the tattoos." It took a somewhat sharp breath or two to tell her that, and he was really glad that he had a thingy running up his nose. Sitting up further was out of the question, too, because his hands were still doing he didn't know what.

"Well, what can I say? Putting it on your forehead's only going to remind you when you're looking in the mirror." She sounded amused at that thought. Only Catherine. "Jim's waiting to see you, too, and Nicky and Warrick and Sara. We've been worried about you."

"You caught her? Greg still okay?" He'd last seen Greg when he'd closed his eyes, but it was still good to check, to ask, to worry, because he did want to know.

"Greg's just fine. She sliced him across the rib cage, but it wasn't bad. They sewed him up while they were working on you in the ER." He could feel Catherine's cool fingers closing around his own. "She's in jail. You're gonna be good."

"She poked out my lung." Gil shifted a little, moved his fingers a little, and there were Catherine's cool fingers. "Where did the cop go?"

The sound of disgust that spilled out made Gil chuckle. "To get coffee. IA is looking into it."

"She was watching," Gil decided, and she probably had been, or she had great timing. Gil wasn't sure, because all he'd been trying to do was doze a little and watch dvds, or let them serve as background noise and. "Sara'll hurt me if I lost her DVDs."

"Don't worry. Sara's not worried about the DVDs. Sara is worried about you and wants you to get better. That's what all of us want," she said, petting the back of his hand. "Nobody's going to hurt you. Your DVD player is in the room with Greg, along with dozens of flowers. They've put him on a different floor in a semiprivate room. We figured you might want a bed of your own this time, all things considered."

"Do I get to stay there?" And why was he here and not there, and maybe Greg could keep the bed after they discharged him? Whenever that was. Gil didn't particularly want to be there for a week, but if time kept jumping, it was okay.

"Once they let you out of ICU, you do." Yeah. Out of ICU, which was really kind of interesting with all sorts of beeping things and some curtains in the corner. He wondered what those were for, already drifting even as Catherine continued talking.

He was pretty sure that he mumbled, "Can I get out of ICU now?" but he wasn't sure. It didn't matter, as long as there were people around and someone kept an eye on Greg and he could sleep now. He'd missed sleep, and he could get all the sleep he wanted now.

He could get plenty of sleep.

~*~*~*~

"How's he doing?" Nick was the first one up, but Warrick was the one asking the questions, shifting forward in his seat and looking at Catherine expectantly.

"Better than I expected." Catherine had to smile when she told them that. He was still Grissom, even under the influence of painkillers. It was almost a relief that she could sit there with him and he was still himself, that his worries and what he said were what she expected. "He's a little scattered, and he's asleep right now. They have him on painkillers, oxygen, and a mild sedative so he doesn't move too much. They're still draining air from his chest cavity, but you can't stop him from asking questions."

"That'd be like keeping a spider from trapping a fly." Appropriate enough metaphor, Nick's smile wry as he spoke. "I can't believe I didn't find her faster on that tape."

"Hey, Nicky, you were working as fast as you could," Warrick assured him. "It's not like five minutes would have made a difference since it was that idiot Michaels on the floor. You'd think he could have stood outside of a damn hospital room..."

"Don't get me started on him," Nick cut in, making a sideways gesture with his hands like he was smoothing something down. Possibly his nerves. "Just... don't. IA will do their thing and I'm not gonna touch that with a ten foot pole."

"You did good finding her, Nicky. She's not getting out on bail, at least." And if some judge was stupid enough to allow it, Catherine would personally shove a high heel up someone's ass. "And you're stuck with whatever case you and Grissom were handling last, Warrick? How was that coming?"

He shrugged. They hadn't seen one another much in the past few weeks, and that was probably for the best, all things considered. "About average. I'll do okay without him if you guys can wrap this up."

"And you've got me," Sara added. She'd been so quiet, Catherine had almost forgotten she was there. "I wrapped up the murder on that blond kid. He was barely twenty-two. It was his uncle. Came all the way from Mississippi to do it."

"So what was with the rose?" Nick frowned a little, twisting to peer at Sara. Sara, whose DVDs Gil had been so concerned about having possibly lost. "Just freakish coincidence?"

"Rumor has it that it was his mother's favorite flower before his father carved it into her."

Catherine was never going to consider Tennessee Williams plays to be over the top again.

"What about the surviving twin?" Nick asked, turning back to Catherine. "He still gonna stay in the state facility for a while?"

There was where Catherine wished she had some good news. "He's being permanently committed. He's a fast cycling manic depressive, there's probably PTSD and a touch of schizophrenia in there. They called Brass since he was the officer who signed him in as a possible danger to himself, and Brass was right. He tried to cut his neck open with a toothbrush." The back, rounded part, and Catherine could only imagine the sad desperation that would bring someone to that. If even half of what she'd heard as rumor from the rest of the family was ture.

"Jesus." That seemed to make all of them pause, think. "And Griss's friend?" The fact that Warrick could say that with a straight face said a lot about him. Griss's friend, when they were all sure it was more than that.

"Fourth floor now. They have an IMCU with a nurse on duty to check the identity of people coming and going. They're going to put them both in a room together to make it easier."

"That's something. I think I passed the guy earlier in the hallway, wheeling himself out." Nick seemed a little quietly amused, a little discomfited by it all. Probably less that Greg Sanders was a hooker, and male, and more that it was Grissom. After all, it had been Nick who'd confided that the whole thing with Lady Heather had baffled him because he was pretty sure that Grissoms didn't date anything. Anyone. Ever.

"By himself?" Great. They had an addict loose in the hospital, and Catherine supposed she'd have to go hunt him down, make sure everything was okay with him. That he hadn't run off with half the downstairs pharmacy. "Charming. I'll leave you guys here. Not more than five minutes with him, okay? We should all go get some rest before we have to go back on tonight."

Five times three was fifteen minutes, and he was probably going to stay passed out for all of them. That was all right. Sara was the first to stand up, clearly aiming to visit Grissom while he was still unconscious. "Sure. Go home and get some rest, Cath. We'll see you tonight."

Well, after she hunted down Sanders.

"See you tonight," she agreed, and headed out of the tiny waiting room towards the elevators. Hunt down Sanders, get some sleep, get Lindsey from school. Maybe she could call her mother and get at least a little assistance in the matter. First things first, though.

She'd check out Sanders and then she could worry about the rest.

~*~*~*~

His arms were tired, and his abdomen hurt, but it was the most he'd done in days and days. It was easier than walking, too, even if his shoulders and back were going to be killing him when the good drugs wore off. They were always killing him, anyway. It wouldn't be anything new.

Now he just had to roll off of the elevator and get back to his room. New room, new open and roomier room. He might even get a cool roommate, and while he didn't want Gil to be in the hospital, there were good things about all of it, if he looked at it in the right way. Gil would have his own bed, and Gil was going to be okay, and they had caught the crazy bitch who had killed Will. Maybe there would be more good news about Ian, too, and that made him feel weirdly hopeful for the first time in more years than Greg really cared to consider.

Maybe it was because not everything in the world had gone wrong on him. Gil had been dead, but not, and now that he'd seen him with his own two eyes, now that he'd sat and listened to Gil babble in his sleep and held his hand and talked to him, things were better. His one good chance wasn't going to leave him. Not everyone who cared about him ended up dead.

It was the closest thing Greg had come to a positive in longer than he really cared to think about.

Carefully, he nudged the wheelchair right next to the door, and when it pinged, he began to push himself off of the elevator. Maybe he should have gotten a nurse to escort him back to his room, but they hadn't exactly given him permission to go down to ICU earlier. Nor had they said it was okay to go down to the gift shop and buy jelly beans with the handful of dollars that Gil usually left with him every day.

That kind of thing had never exactly stopped him before.

He went through life with less than permission. He went through life breaking the rules, so... so the next time he went up to see Gil, he'd bring him Jelly Bellies and hopefully they'd let Gil have them. Gil was a sharing sort, so Greg wouldn't have to sneak any out of the jar beforehand.

"What do you mean, you've misplaced him?"

Yep. He'd been found out. They were probably going to be turning out security soon, so it was a good thing that he'd come back before they got the chance to do that. "Misplaced who?" Greg asked, wheeling up behind the blonde woman at the desk, mischievous smile already in place. He just couldn't help himself, most of the time.

After all, he definitely hadn't been misplaced. He'd just... well, they'd left the chair there, and he knew what room Gil was in and it made sense for him to at least try. "You!" She twisted, half-startling. "Where have you been, Mr. Sanders?"

He held up his jar full of jelly beans. "Getting a present for Gil. It's safe to go out now, right? I mean, all things considered."

"Considering you're bleeding through your gauze and your gown, Mr. Sanders, we'd like to get you into your room and seen about." The nurse on duty had that look, with the pursed lips and the Look.

He was -- oh, wow. Wow, he was, and he was lucky that Gil had been out of it, or he would have freaked out, where Greg was a little too high to do much by way of that himself. "Is it all right if I hang around for a few minutes? I wanted to talk to him, but..." The blonde lady gestured to his front. Gil called her Catherine.

"I don't know about..."

"Sure. I've always had a thing for pretty blondes." His mom had been blonde, actually, a dirty not-quite-brown sort of blonde that he remembered touching when she told him bedtime stories, nothing like the strawberry shade of Catherine's.

He missed his mom. He missed his mom, and Catherine was going to wait outside because the nurse was already rolling him away through the IMCU doors and into the room to lay him out and bandage him up again. It was worth it, a few popped stitches, if he got to see Gil and make sure he was alive and okay.

"I'm okay," he promised the nurse as she hustled him out of the wheelchair and towards the bed. "Honest. I just wanted to go up to ICU and they wouldn't let me so..."

"For a very good reason," the nurse sniffed.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to be offended or not. He wanted to see Gil, and there wasn't any very good reason to keep him from doing that. "Here, let's get you up into bed and you're going to stay there..."

"I'll be good. I'm a really great patient, no matter what those ladies on third floor say." At the very least, maybe he could charm the nurses. He was charming enough, right? Sure he was.

"So good that you rolled yourself out of your room when we weren't looking," she tsked. But she pulled the blankets up over his lap, too, before she started to open up his robe so she could get to his dressings.

"I really did want to see him. I mean, he got stabbed in my room, and he's my friend, so..." Yeah, betadine. That stuff never seemed to come off. "Can Catherine come visit when you're done?"

"Is she on your list?" Maybe? Gil was, but Gil was up a floor and not able to visit just then because he was gurgling air from his chest. All Greg had done was pop one measly little stitch or -- oh, two. The betadine covered one, slipped over to blend away blood. It made him feel a little nauseated, actually, because. Yeah. Blood wasn't a good thing for him lately, obviously.

"Well, no, but the only person on my list is downstairs in ICU." Obviously pouting wasn't going to get him very far in this particular case. "I'll swear not to get up and go anywhere." Like he could, the way he was feeling. Ugh. Yeah, all of that going had been a bad idea.

Maybe he could sleep it away until Gil arrived, and then he'd not really notice all of the ache and any of the loneliness. "Who did you sweet talk to see him? Poor security is the whole reason he's down there to start with."

"Nobody." Greg felt a little embarrassed, actually. "They just weren't paying attention to me so, um. I just went. The day nurses on third floor don't pay a lot of attention to me." On purpose, he figured. They probably hadn't even realized he wasn't there anymore, because it wasn't like they saw much of him when he had been there. It made his new nurse scowl, but hey, pissed off attention was better than no attention at all.

"You need to stay put and rest, Mr. Sanders."

"I promise I'll be good." Or at least as good as he could be, all things considered. His back was killing him, and he knew his legs and feet were full of tremors from the nerve problem and the lack of pain medication but. But. He was going to try so hard to be good and come off the drugs and... and be good, if Gil would just live.

Gil was caring for him so well and carefully and it wasn't, shouldn't be that hard just to try to be good in more ways than not just sneaking off to see Gil. The nurse eyed him, and pulled the blankets back up after she pressed new gauze down over his little tear. It probably wasn't even worth new stitches, or else she was going to get a doctor to do it. "Good. No getting out of bed, and if you need something, the call button is right there."

"Can Catherine come in? Just for a minute." He looked at her pleadingly, that look that his mother used to swear would melt the heart of the Snow Queen herself. Greg just hoped desperately that it would work one more time.

"Well, all right. Just a minute." It might keep him from trying to wheel off, which had to be something in the nurse's opinion. She moved towards the door, popped it open, and gestured to someone Greg couldn't see who had to be Catherine.

"Hi," he greeted as she came in, managing a smile. Greg figured that he probably looked like hell: scrawny, sweaty and pale. Still, no reason not to offer his charm. "Nice to see you."

She gave him a little smile, and closed the door behind her. Once the door closed, it was like her face shifted a little, from smiling to intent. "Greg. What were you running around doing?"

"Visiting." Yeah, okay. Charm didn't seem like it was the kind of thing that would work on this one. "And buying Jelly Bellies. For when Gil gets out."

She eyed him for a moment. "I didn't know he liked that kind of candy." But there the decoratively tied up bag was, resting on the seat of the wheelchair that he wasn't supposed to get into again. "You probably shouldn't run free around the hospital again. Someone might think you're taking people's little pill cups."

Okay. Maybe he deserved that. Maybe. One way or the other, it pretty much knocked his hat in the creek, and wiped the smile right off of his face. "Yeah. I guess so. Thanks for stopping by. I'm pretty sure you can find the door, and if it's all the same, you don't need to come back again."

She didn't leave, though. She pulled up the chair, and picked up the jelly beans to put them on his side table. "Look. I just mean that it would be great for everyone if you stayed out of trouble."

Yeah. Sure. That was exactly what she meant. What she meant was something he'd heard most of his life. _Greg, you're so much trouble._ "Right." Right. Staying well, staying clean, it wouldn't be worth it in the long run. He'd just make trouble for Gil, trouble like this. People would always suspect him because he had a problem, and he couldn't even pretend they were wrong about that because he did have a problem. That lady was one of Gil's friends, peering at him like he was going to pull a bottle of pills out of somewhere and start to kick them back.

Or maybe he was just paranoid. "Really. You made yourself bleed, and Gil will kill me if when he gets transferred down here you've made yourself worse while he was gone."

"I promised the nurse I'd be good." Good. Not a single blow job to any of the night staff in return for a handful of Perc. Not even for something cheap like Tylenol3. Ha. "So you don't have to stand over me with a gun and handcuffs. Although, you know, if you just have the urge...."

The edge of her mouth twisted a little towards a wider smile. "I think I can guess why Gil likes you. No, I'd prefer it if you continue to get better. So that whenever Gil goes back to work, he doesn't spend his days making ours miserable again."

"Well, there's nothing to worry about. I'll be good. I already promised. Plus, I'm kind of tired, so..." Completely exhausted, actually. Everything was hurting him right at the moment, his body cramping up in unpleasant ways.

"Okay. Gil worries about you, Greg. I've never seen him worry about someone like this so much before, and if you break his heart, so help me god, I will find you." She was smiling when she said it, which was probably creepier than if she'd looked angry.

"It isn't nice to try to scare the sick people," Greg chided, tugging his covers up a little more. "You know. Since they're sick and all." Yeah, she was scary, all right. He was definitely going to avoid her from now on.

"If I were trying to scare you, you'd know it. Gil trusts you. Without a reason or proof, he'll trust you. Don't break that trust." Or she'd go back to that whole _'I'll break your legs'_ sort of mentality.

If he did slip and do something, Greg knew he'd make Gil sad, and that scared him a lot more. He remembered being a kid and seeing that flashing look of disappointment when he did something his mom wouldn't like -- left his bike out when he knew he ought to put it away, or stayed too long at the next door neighbors. He never wanted to see that look on Gil's face, especially not now that they were talking about... things. About getting clean and... "I promise." Not for her, but for himself. For the hope that he had a future again for the first time in a long time.

"Okay. Then I think we'll be able to get along just fine."

Somehow he didn't believe it, and now he kind of wished that the nurse had thwarted him, let him stew in his own worried juices so that he didn't have to hear any of this. So he didn't have to feel like buying something for Gil, even if it was small and stupid and with the money he had given Greg, was something bad. "Okay."

"I need to take your statement about what happened if you're up to it. If you're not, I can have Detective Brass come by."

"Kind of feeling rough." Yeah, and he didn't really want to talk to a woman who assumed he was stealing pills when he was buying jelly beans. Maybe it wasn't nice of him to dislike the idea of forgiving her for it, but for some reason, he just didn't think he could let go of that.

Not yet. Not for a while, and she nodded. "Okay. I'll have the detective come by later." She pushed the chair back quietly, and stood up, and Greg just wanted her to go, fast now right away. "I just want you to know that no one's judging you for what's happened. None of us are saints, and we all expect the worst."

"Yeah? Well. Next time I want some jelly beans, I'll make sure there's a cop to escort me so I don't jack half the pill cups on the floor. Suit you?" Damn. That... wasn't really like him. On the other hand, he was hurting like hell, and he wanted drugs, something, anything to help it, and he couldn't just ask for it because they'd think the same thing she had.

She hadn't expected that little burst of vitriol, he could tell. Her eyebrows went up, and she started to turn. "No, just let someone know where you're going. A nurse. Or ask someone to bring something for you. If you were that bad, they'd be locking the door on you."

"Yeah. I'll do that." He wouldn't see Gil for days, and he'd be all by himself and bored and lonely and he wasn't used to that, really. Greg always had friends he could call, and tricks if he wanted them, and Gil if he was desperate. Just... things were different now.

One of his best friends was dead, and Iantine was probably going to kill himself. Maybe now, just now, it was starting to sink in. He'd almost lost Gil, but he'd definitely lost Will.

He barely heard Catherine close the door.

~*~*~*~

Jim Brass had a thing for pretty girls, a soft spot for puppies, and a weakness when faced with kids who had gotten too old too soon by making hellaciously bad choices. Frankly, it wasn't the best idea in the world to send him up to the fourth floor IMCU to try and ask a hustler who was barely older than his own daughter what had happened when a nut job tried to kill him and Jim's best friend in one fell swoop.

There was no question the kid was a hustler, but he was a lucky one. Any kid like that who went to bed and woke up again in the morning was lucky with the shit they got themselves into. His buddy was dead, a victim of bad luck and crazy family, and it made Jim wonder what the full story was going to be. Thankfully the statement was just official, just to make sure that what they thought had happened was right.

Once the kid was awake all the way, he could ask all of the right questions, get all of the right answers, and it would be over and done with. Simple as that.

"You're pretty good at being quiet." The groggy sound of that voice was mixed with a smile, one that seemed to tease him. "That's a good thing around here."

"Yeah? Too many people talking too much?" He didn't move, but he did keep his voice quiet.

"Mmm." The way Greg rolled his head and opened his eyes really made Jim feel old. "Yeah, well, they come in and out, in and out. Things go beep. There are things hurting that I wish I could forget I had." He said it with a smile, though, one that drew attention to the drawn lines around his eyes.

He had tired eyes, old eyes. The kid had led a hard life, and Jim wasn't willing to call it his fault. His crimes were victimless unless someone got smart and counted Sanders himself as a victim. "And I bet there are things that hurt that aren't even there anymore."

Yeah, that made the smile get even bigger. "Yeah. Like the missing parts somewhere right around here." Greg pointed at his insides like Ellie had done when she was six and had a tummy ache. "But I have all of the important parts, and hey. They said Gil might even be down here in a day or two."

"Tomorrow," Jim confirmed. The kid was probably coasting just a little on morphine or something. There was no reason for Jim to be bothered by that, and he wasn't, because sometimes people needed the things they were addicted to. "They'll be glad to move him down here. He's a crappy patient, you know? Once he got shot on a scene and he was back to work something like two days after."

"He doesn't take care of himself," Greg offered, and he smiled again. "It's his nature. Not taking care of himself. He likes taking care of everybody else better." Or at least taking care of Greg, and Jim wasn't nearly as surprised about that as everybody else probably was.

He remembered that time Gil had gotten really drunk and tried to pet Little Jim. It was water under the bridge, but one very juicy fact about his often mysterious friend. Jim could keep a secret, and hell, Gil probably didn't even remember it. "Yeah, he does. But you know, just as often he's oblivious to people."

"I've never noticed." The slow, deep breath the kid took came out as a steady sigh. "So I guess you want to ask me questions about what happened. When she came in, you know."

He'd never noticed. Lucky kid, then, but if he had expectations that Gil would always be that intense there was trouble in paradise. Well, that or there was the distinct possibility that that was how things went with Gil and Jim just didn't know because dicks weren't his bag. "Yeah. I just need your statement. You can take your time."

"Yeah." Yeah, and the kid reached up and rubbed his face. "We were sleeping. I mean, Gil had been dozing in the chair most of the day. The day nurses on third floor, they kind of suck. In a scary way. I mean, you call them and they're... they just don't ever come. Or if they do, they yell at you. Or not yell, but... they're just weird."

"So Grissom liked to stick around to get their attention if something happened?" Jim supplied. He wasn't a lawyer, and he could ask all the leading questions he wanted to.

"Or help me up. Help me walk. They were talking about taking out the catheter, and some other things. I, um. There was an infection. So he was.... He didn't like leaving me alone. He's been kind of great. I don't have any idea why, exactly." Yeah, he did, but Jim wasn't going to poke at it. "So, I heard him get up and say something, and when I opened my eyes, there was... a n-knife. Sticking out of his chest. Right side. Lower than the heart."

"Not quite the nurse you expected to be there when you looked up."

"Yeah. Well. I, ah. I tried to get up. Do something about it, but there was blood and the catheter tubing came loose and she was coming my way and it all just..." Just went straight to hell, Jim was guessing.

He needed to hear it. "Got confusing, I understand. Things move pretty fast when they're going bad, but I really need you to try to articulate what happened after she stabbed Grissom."

"Um." He could see the guy swallow, hard. "She pulled out the knife and came after me. Swiping at me, you know? And I, I think.... I don't know. I think I managed to fight her for it, but we were sliding, and Gil was bleeding everywhere and there was pee on the floor and somebody finally came in. She was... I'm not sure where she was by then because I was trying to get to Gil."

Yeah. The kid obviously had all the self-protective instincts of a kitten curled up on the engine block of a warm car. Everything was okay until the fan belt clicked on. "Okay. And then someone got you back onto the bed after they took Grissom out? Did you see the officer who was supposed to have been outside of your door at any point?" Jim waved his pen a little.

"No." Greg shook his head. "Um. I think I remember seeing him earlier in the day, but I didn't see anybody with a uniform come in. I was bleeding, though, and really concentrating on Gil and there was... The blood was bubbling...."

"Okay." He cut Greg off gently, because someone needed to before the kid started to freak out. He already looked a little hazy, probably more on memories than actual drugs. "It's all back in him where it should be."

"I don't mean to get anybody in any trouble." The kid probably meant it, too, because he was looking even more guilty now. "But I really don't remember so well. I mean, it was...."

"Fast, I know. It's all right. No one's getting in trouble. Did Gil tell you about CSI 3 Nick Stokes? Same cop who was supposed to have watched him on scene. If anyone's getting anyone in trouble, it's that guy by himself making his own trouble." Jim tucked the pen into the spine of the notepad, and closed it.

"How's Gil?" Greg fidgeted, and the bed made a sound, blowing itself up for a moment in response to the movement. He made a face. "The nurses won't let me get off the floor here, and um. Nobody's willing to tell me anything. So I'm kind of..." His gaze dropped. "I'm worried." Scared, more like it, Jim could tell.

"He's okay. He's a strong guy, and like I said, they're going to move him down here tomorrow. They're pretty sure that he's going to be okay." Except for the fact that he'd been stabbed with an already bloody knife that had Greg's blood and the dead kid's blood on it. There was probably some sentimental attachment to her murder weapon of choice. "It wasn't the cleanest knife in the world that she used, but he's doing okay."

"Sorry," Greg apologized. "I missed you saying anything. Or I just..." He shrugged, and then hissed. "I'm kind of..." Out of it, or hurting, or both. Kind of funny, considering what Catherine had said about the kid wheeling himself around to visit Gil and buy jelly beans.

The jelly beans were sitting neatly in the window along with a stack of DVDs that must have come from his other room.

"In pain?" Jim guessed. "Withdrawal is hell. On the bright side, you'll probably be done by the time you get out of here. It'll help. Not the best way to do it, but you've gotten to sleep a lot of it off."

The fact that Greg laughed seemed to help. "Yeah, well. I, ah. I haven't been without something to take the edge off in a pretty long time. They've been giving me stuff that doesn't even touch it, but they've made some pretty interesting suggestions about other things, too. Everything hurts, but hey. Aside from the sweating and twitching the first week, it could have been worse."

"I bet." He could've gotten almost all the way through it and then started in on the drugs again. "You seem like a good kid, Sanders. I'm sorry about your friends."

The way he ducked his head seemed embarrassed. "It's been a long time since anybody called me a good kid. I'm sorry, too." Something seemed to register with him then, and he looked up. "Friends... Ian's not doing good." It was mostly a statement, partially a question.

"Ian's been committed," Jim confirmed. "It's for his own safety. It's a good place, quiet. They're big on art there, so he'll at least keep busy." And hopefully not try to cut anything vital with a blunt object again. The kid didn't need the details.

Greg sighed. "That's not much of a surprise. If I'm honest about it, anyway." He shook his head and the bed made another pumping sound, short-lived. "They, uh. They were kind of scary close sometimes. But they were good guys, really. Just messed up." He gave Jim a faint smile. "I mean, all things considered."

"I understand." It didn't make then any less worthy of the attention of the police and the healthcare workers than anyone else. "Hey, so what's your bed doing there? Inflating itself?"

"Up and down, up and down. It's the reason I'm trying to hold still," Greg admitted, and then gave Jim a grin that made him want to ruffle the kid's hair. Dammit. "Otherwise it drives me nuts. Plus I'm bored stiff, so it's kind of a case of gives-me-something-to-do besides surf eighty channels worth of nothing. It's a shame they don't have Gameshow Network. At least then, you can kind of distract yourself with trivia."

"Gameshow Network would probably get a lot of old people's heart-rates up. You know, yelling at the screen." Jim lifted his eyebrows a little, and while he didn't ruffle the kid's hair, he did smile a little. "Do you want anything before I duck out of here with your statement?"

"Nah. They're letting me get up to pee on my own these days, so if I really want something, I can probably get it for myself. But... are you going downstairs?" He seemed hopeful.

"Yeah, on my way out." Jim waited, let it sound like an offer, because if there was something the kid wanted him to get, he'd do it. It wasn't an inconvenience.

"I know they don't let you take stuff down to ICU or anything but... Could you tell him I....?" Greg cleared his throat. "Um. Just tell him I'm thinking about him. Worried, you know. He's a really great person. Maybe the best. Ever."

It was a little comforting to know that the kid seemed as smitten with Gil as Gil seemed to be tangled up with him. Shit like that was always better when it was reciprocal, and he was pretty sure that the kid wasn't playing Gil. When a guy got to their age, even being played with wasn't so bad. "Sure. I'll pass that on, but don't blame me if his head swells up and pops." Jim winked, and started to stand.

The way the kid grinned was good enough for Jim, something to seriously brighten his day. "Nah. He'd only do that if I had chocolate covered grasshoppers up here for him. They don't sell those downstairs, though. I kind of had to make do with what they had."

"He'll love them. I once watched him pick the sugar off the outside to see if the jelly had any taste. It'll at least be entertaining." Whenever Gil got up there. Jim was pretty sure that between the two of them, they wouldn't be bored. "I'll pass it on to him. Get some rest, kid."

"I'll be good. Otherwise, the scary blonde chick might come back." Greg grinned at him. "I'm so not willing to risk her coming to see me again."

Scary blonde. Jim tried not to choke or laugh. "She'll probably come by to see Gil, but I swear, she doesn't bite." He had a hand on the doorknob, and he didn't quite want to leave. The kid looked bored and tired and everything else that made it hard to leave him alone. Particularly after what had happened with the surviving twin.

Particularly considering Ellie.

"Yeah, but I get the feeling she might tap-dance on me if she thought I was gonna reach for somebody else's pill cup." It was said jokingly, but it made Jim's skin tingle. "She's pretty scary."

"She's had and kicked her own addictions, so... she knows it's hard. That's all. I think she's taken a scare people straight tactic since then." Jim winked and finally started to open the door. "Good luck. If you have trouble sleeping, try ESPN. I think they show golf through the day. That'll put you right out."

"Golf will do it," Greg agreed with a nod. "Thanks for coming by. Even if it was just to get a statement. And... I'll see you around maybe. Hopefully not in a professional capacity."

"No one likes to meet the homicide detective professionally. I'll see you around." he waved a little, and it was with more than slight reluctance that he closed the door behind him. Yeah, the kid was a junkie, but he was trying, and while Jim could smell deception a mile away, he didn't get even a whiff off of Sanders.

It was pretty easy to guess why Gil liked him. The kid was amusing, smiled a lot, seemed to like everybody. Sure, Catherine scared him, but any kid his age with good sense would be a little nervous around Cath. Hell, a man with good sense Jim's age would be nervous of her.

He hit the automatic door opener and headed out the doors as they opened, passing the IMCU nurse on duty. She waved goodbye to him and he moved past her to hit the button on the elevator, calling it up to fourth floor.

After all of that, he was going to drop Greg's statement off at the department and head home. Say hi to Gil if he was even awake, pass on Greg's very high opinion of him, and a promise to swing by again later. Probably after they were already in the same room.

Maybe he'd bring by some chocolate covered grasshoppers since they obviously let patients have presents once they got down to IMCU.

The doors opened with a ping, and he stepped inside, punched the button for the second floor. They were letting cops visit Gil pretty much any time between normal visiting hours instead of keeping everybody to the twenty minute schedule, and that was definitely going to work in his favor.

It wasn't like he could ever show up during that time slot, anyway. He wouldn't be there that long, just enough to say hello and slink back out of the room before anyone could tsk and say he'd been there too long. At least it wasn't the five minute rule anymore, not that Jim would stay much longer. He hated visiting people in hospitals. It brought up old memories and miserable thoughts, the vague scent of old people and piss no matter how many times he went to better, cleaner places. The handful of times he'd been in the hospital hadn't been much better, and Jim could honestly say that he hated the damn places. They made him miserable, made everybody else miserable.

The doors pinged and opened again, and he moved around the corner, past the tiny shadowed alcove near the waiting room. Somebody was crying there; they always were. Crying, praying, trying to sleep sitting upright and miserable. It was always the same no matter what hospital he was in, no matter what floor he was on. It wasn't all sunshine and flowers, no, hospitals were places of strained hope and misery. It was easy for him to wander past the waiting room, noting briefly who was there, heading for the call phone outside of the unit doors.

He paused when he got there, picked it up and dialed the room number. It seemed like the door was never going to open, but it finally swung outwards so that he could see the nurses in the center of the room, and he moved inside before it could close again.

"He's awake," the perky young nurse offered as he stepped close. "The PA's been in to see him, and he's feeling really remarkably well."

"Yeah? That's good. He's looking forwards to being transferred up to the fourth floor, probably." Enough that Jim could guess that Gil would fake being better if he could clear through the muddle of his brain first.

"Jim?"

Yeah, that sounded like Gil, all right, full of curiosity and wide awake. Considering where he was that was a hell of an accomplishment, so Jim stepped into the curtained room where he laid. "I, uh, I heard there was a sick guy around here somewhere. You seen him?"

"Maybe. He could be hiding behind that curtain," Gil suggested with a faint gesture. He looked ill. He looked like he'd been stabbed in the chest, except his eyes were wide awake and lucid. He'd probably just had breakfast, so Jim could bet on a good half an hour of coherency.

"Yeah, well, I'm kind of scared to look behind the curtain. I think I saw a toilet back there, and if the sick guy's back there, I'm thinking I don't want to see him. I'll settle for you," Jim joked, settling onto the stool by the bed. "How're you doing?"

"I'm tired, but I think that's because they're slipping me things in the IV." He gestured at that, too. Jim could smell instant breakfast or something, and applesauce. Hospital food was apparently still pretty bad, and that was almost a comfort to know. "How is everyone? How's Greg?"

Yeah, Jim wasn't really surprised by that question. "Doing pretty good. They're, ah, I think they're leveling him off the painkillers. He always that upbeat about things?" Jim figured probably not. Withdrawal was a bitch, but the worst of that was probably a good week gone.

"In general? Greg's always had a very... positive attitude." High, Jim figured, but Gil didn't say it in a searching for words to cover a lie way. He was just searching for words, period. "I wish I was there. What good is giving someone your power of attorney when they end up stabbed?"

"Hey, you did pretty good right up to the stabbing part. He's definitely impressed with you down there. Wants to know when you'll be coming down to visit. The nurses swear he keeps trying to sneak out." Well, not exactly, but there was always a nurse on duty at the desk up there.

A nurse who kept Greg from sneaking out. "He shouldn't." Except that Gil was smiling when he said it. "How's the lab?"

"Eh, Nick blew up the DNA lab and Warrick's been sleeping with the print techs. Last I heard, Mia and Hodges were actually trying to create Frankenstein down in the morgue, but that's just a rumor Al mentioned on the side."

Gil's eyes flickered with a tiny bit of surprise before he smiled. "See, I know you're lying. The last three print technicians have turned Warrick down flat."

Jim snapped his fingers. "Damn. I was sure the last bit would be the part that convinced you." He leaned forward slightly. "Yeah, well. Things are all under control. Cath's got an iron fist. Even the kid upstairs knows it."

"She scared him?" It got a little frown out of Grissom, that slightly confused look that made Jim want to laugh. It was probably the anesthetic kicking around his system still that had Gil out of sorts. "She's a good supervisor. Knew she would be."

"Yeah, well. She's great, and the kid's not scared, he's just got a healthy respect. I mean, c'mon. Cath kind of inspires it like that." Jim couldn't help smiling.

It made Gil smile, contagiously, almost. "I hope she wasn't warning him about the pitfalls of cocaine."

"More like what a bad idea it is to sneak off and wheel himself all around the hospital visiting you and the auxiliary gift shop downstairs when he's nearly died twice." Yeah. It didn't hurt to smile back at Gil, not when he was so obviously feeling pretty good for a guy who'd been stabbed. "Hey, I gotta take his statement back downtown. You need anything?"

"When do I get moved...?" Oh, he wanted out, too, but that didn't surprise Jim. He'd been expecting that sentiment, because Gil was the guy who showed up to work injured. Gil was the guy who tried to hide the fact that he was injured if it was at all possible.

"They're saying tomorrow. Hey, they even cleared a pretty big room in IMCU so that you can share with the kid and all," Jim promised, mouth twitching to the side. "He's kind of excited. Got you a present and everything."

"He's sweet." Sweet and street smart didn't usually go hand in hand, and if Jim hadn't been who he was, he wouldn't have understood how it was possible. Gil laid his head back on the pillow, and sighed sleepily. "Have a good day? Thanks, Jim."

"Yeah." Yeah, and he watched Gil close his eyes and doze off while he was still there, unable to resist the siren song of whatever dope they had him on. Jim figured it'd be damn good stuff, all things considered.

Gil never even twitched so much as a finger when he got up and left.

~*~*~*~

Warrick had volunteered for it.

His grandma had always encouraged him to volunteer, to be helpful, and usually it paid off. Not that volunteering was supposed to pay off, but it gave him a sense that he'd done something right.

Driving Grissom to his apartment with Greg Sanders in the back seat was giving him less of a sense of doing something right and more of a quietly nagging sense of worry. Of course, he'd been just about the only person in the lab that Gil hadn't gone passive aggressive at, and that had something to do with helping him with the cases he'd been stuck doing while everyone else worked on the case with the girl as their suspect.

Who'd managed to go and stab Gil anyway.

Warrick wondered sometimes if Michaels had a brain anywhere in his head. He was pretty sure not, and he was equally certain that the guy should have been fired the day he managed to lose Nicky. There were half a dozen reasons to get rid of Michaels, or at least to give him a job any idiot could do. He'd suggest sending him into one of the schools to teach the drug outreach programs if he wasn't afraid the guy would do more harm than good.

"So, everybody okay? I mean, you know. You guys pretty comfortable still?"

"Everything is good." Yeah, he'd bet everything was good. Gil was leaning back in his passenger seat, and Greg was in the back sitting in the middle because he didn't like the way the shoulder belt pressed over his stomach. The lap belt was low on his hips, which was apparently not a bother to him. "I appreciate that you wouldn't let me call a cab."

"Man, like we'd let you get away with that." Yeah, Catherine would probably find a way to have him castrated without it pointing to her if he had so much as hinted at the possibility. Not that he would have; he hadn't gotten to go and see Gil much when he was in the hospital.

He'd been a little busy trying to juggle sleep and a wife and all of the cases Gil had been working on with him. It left him tired and stretched thin, and it wasn't any wonder that Grissom had been pissed off at Ecklie. "You're a good friend."

Yeah, and Gil was still on painkillers or sedatives or something. It was better than the quietness from the back seat.

The guy was only a couple of years younger than Warrick, and it made him a little uncomfortable. There but for the grace of god and all that, except for the part where Warrick's addictions had at least been government sanctioned in Vegas and so he hadn't turned to tricking or anything to get his fix. So to speak.

"Yeah, well, it was this or go home to Tina making pitiful faces at me for working late again. I kinda wasn't up for that just yet," he teased, tossing a glance in his rear view mirror.

Greg was awake, yeah, peering back at him in he mirror for a moment before his eyes slid away to look at the back of Gil's head. "Won't you be twice as late now?"

"No worries. It's not like she's gonna yell any louder if I'm fifty minutes late than if I'm fifteen." Yeah, and wasn't that working out just great for both of them?

God. It was just a pitfall, and he kept telling himself that, but maybe it'd been a damn bad idea after all. Warrick wasn't sure. "She yells because she's worried," Gil pointed out. Yeah, and Gil was the most permissive man Warrick had ever met when it came to his personal life. What would he know?

"Not everybody yells because of worry." Warrick really hadn't expected that tentative voice from the back seat. "Sometimes they're just pissed. Sometimes you're just the easiest stress release."

He probably had a pretty good grasp of people taking shit out on him just because he was there. "There is that," Gil agreed. Gil still only ever yelled at them occasionally, when they were being stupid. When he needed stress release, he took it out on the suspects.

They usually deserved it.

"Hey, before I drop you guys off, you want me to drive through someplace? Pick up some breakfast, lunch, something to fill you up before you go back to lying down and sleeping all the time?" Probably together, and yeah, that was an image he didn't need in his head. "Catherine checked your fridge and filled it up, Griss."

"She didn't have to do that." Except if she hadn't there wouldn't have been anything in there but moldy bread and sour milk, which was no way to live. "Greg, do you want anything or do you just want to go home?"

"They're still demanding that I keep to the oatmeal regimen," the hooker in Warrick's back seat said softly. "But you should get something."

"Catherine probably bought cereal." And she had. Rice krispies and a lot of milk, and oatmeal, too. Healthy stuff, stuff that she probably pumped Lindsey full of when she was sick because it was likely not to make her any sicker. "Thanks for the offer, Warrick, but I think we'll just head home."

Then Warrick could head home and tell his wife how he kept thinking about Catherine and he'd had a hooker in his back seat that morning. Yeah. He could already tell what that would spell, with a capital D.

"Sure. You know we're gonna be coming by to check on you guys now and then, right?" Warrick asked, tilting his head to the side so that he could see both of them, Gil beside him and Greg in his mirror.

"You have something against the infirm caring for the infirm?" Gil's mouth twitched into a smile. "I've already promised not to lift heavy objects. We'll be fine, Warrick."

"Yeah, yeah. Not more than the milk jug, that's what you're supposed to be lifting," Warrick reminded him. "Besides. Stuff gets away from you when you're sick and supposed to be resting. The dishes grow in a pile, the laundry overflows. That kind of thing. Don't worry about it."

"I can take care of the laundry," Greg offered quietly from the back, and it made Warrick smile.

"I'm guessing that milk jug thing probably holds true for you, too. Stay in bed." He couldn't see it lasting for more than a day or two. Grissom was too damn stubborn to stay resting for long, and Greg seemed like he was going to do something to repay Gil for what he'd been trying to do. Warrick just wasn't going to think about the other options that would keep him in bed and do that, because as much as it stretched most people's willing belief, he knew that Gil wouldn't do that. He just wasn't that kind of guy. Never had been, never would be. Warrick had known enough of them in his old neighborhood to be sure of it.

"We'll be good," Greg assured him almost brightly, but Warrick heard the rest of the sentence as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud.

_Or we won't get caught._

Except if people were coming over to check on laundry, dishes, and that they were generally still alive and okay? They were gonna get caught at it. Not that Warrick was sure two grown men could get 'caught' doing something that was pretty consenting and he didn't want to think about it. Not going to think about it. That was just something else he could add to the list of stuff Tina was gonna get angry at him about. Hookers in the back seat of his car, Catherine and thinking about men getting caught going at it.

"Or something that suspiciously resembles being good."

The fact that Gil said it with such a straight face made Warrick grin despite himself. "Yeah, well, so long as it at least looks like you're trying, I think you'll be okay. Just, y'know, try not to traumatize Nicky when he comes over." Naked people would probably make Nick blush. Well, not naked people so much as naked Gil. Grissom au naturale, which was something Warrick never wanted to seriously contemplate. Grissom could be traumatizing enough standing on both feet and fully clothed with a little jar of spiders in one hand and a malicious gleam in his eye when he walked towards Ecklie's office.

"Traumatizing Nicky would require..." Gil gave a loose shrug of his shoulders. "Energy."

"Yeah, well. I'm thinking you might be willing to expend a little if Ecklie came to visit, so we won't put him on the roster." As if they would anyway.

"Ecklie...." Greg said softly from the back seat. He looked sleepy. "Detective Brass said something about someone named Ecklie when he came by the other day."

"He's the lab's assistant director," Gil told him. He'd been driving Gil up a wall for years and years now. Maybe Greg knew that and maybe Greg didn't. It was hard to guess what they talked about.

"And he's afraid of spiders?" Yeah, that was entertaining, glancing back to see that sly, pleased sort of smile. "Or something like that...."

"Is he? Oh, I didn't know." Gil's voice was full of mock-innocence, and his eyes were starting to flutter closed a little.

"Hey, you two still with me? We're almost there, but you need to stay awake a little while longer." Warrick peered over at Gil as he coasted to a stoplight, and glanced at Greg again in the rear view mirror. There was a smile on his lips, all indulgence, and a glow in the way he looked forward at Gil that Warrick wasn't sure he'd ever seen on Tina's face.

Damn it.

"I'm awake," Greg said softly, and Gil murmured agreeably.

Yeah, like hell they were awake. He was going to have to herd them in and make sure they started on something like breakfast before he could conscionably leave them there in Gil's apartment. Fifteen minutes, fifty minutes, an hour and a half.

The decibel was going to end up being about the same.

~*~*~*~

Warm.

Safe.

Warm and safe were things that Greg really didn't know what to do with, but when he drifted up from sleep, he was aware of being both of those things. It was unusual and pleasant, and he couldn't keep from smiling.

It was a little like waking up from a dream and finding himself in another dream, a better one. The mattress felt a little worn, but there was a difference between that and hotel-mattress feeling. The sheets smelled nice, too, and he was toasty. The safeness was a feeling, too, like the smell and the heat, all of which crept into his senses even though he wasn't awake enough to remember why he felt that way. For the moment, it was nice to wake up and not feel hungry or tired. It was nice just to feel clean and rested and good. That could really only mean one thing, so Greg opened his eyes slowly and let the smile spread over his lips.

Gil's house.

Gil was asleep beside him. There was only one bedroom, and despite his murmurings about sleeping on the couch, Gil had carefully herded both of them towards it. The bed was huge, so it wasn't as though either of them would bump into one another, hurt their various injuries. Gil was twisted a little in his sleep, face pressed against the pillow. His mouth was open a little, and he sighed every so often in his sleep, a soft snore.

It was good to be safe. He could probably lie there forever and just eat oatmeal and Gil would be happy with him. He'd made cinnamon oatmeal for Greg before they'd gone to bed, and the bowl was probably over on the night stand. Mr. Brown had stayed with them until they'd both eaten a little. Gil was nice and he had nice friends.

Greg didn't deserve to be so happy.

There wasn't really a doubt in his mind that it was true. It was his fault that Gil was hurt, and that was more real than believing when he was thirteen that it was his fault his mother and grandparents had died. There had been a psychiatrist on campus when he was at college and he'd gone to see her right up until the explosion. He knew realistically that wanting concert tickets and sulking like a big baby until they went to get them hadn't made him responsible for their deaths.

His being a whore too high to remember who'd been slicing into him, on the other hand....

That was entirely his fault. He should have remembered who'd done it, and if he'd remembered then he could have told someone and Gil wouldn't be lying there sleeping so heavily. Gil wouldn't have ended up with a huge hole in his lung. Gil didn't seem to be holding it against Greg, though. When they'd been in the same hospital room, it had been pretty fun, if Greg wanted to admit it. Gil liked to toss the deformed jelly bellies, and it was nearly impossible to try to catch them in his mouth.

Didn't stop Greg from trying, of course. He liked them, even the deformed ones. Somebody had brought chocolate covered bugs, too. Grasshoppers were crunchy, and the whole thing tasted remarkably minty. Of course, that could have just been the chocolate. On the other hand, Gil had beamed when Greg had tried them, and so that had been rather enjoyable, all things considered. He liked having things to share with Gil, even if it was something as silly as eating grasshoppers.

He liked that he could make Gil smile despite everything, despite the trouble that he'd proven to be for Gil. Gil was still talking treatment for drugs, and getting help for his back, and... and forwards.

There was a community college near enough to where Gil lived, Gil said. It'd get him back in the system. It'd get him back on his feet. Keep him straight. He didn't have any felonies on his record, so he could get a job almost anywhere he wanted, doing anything he wanted. He could even work in the lab with Gil.

If he wanted.

Community college would be baby steps, steps to getting a couple of credits added to his old ones that he could transfer towards an associates. Baby steps were things that took him forwards, away from living on the street.

Gil wanted that for him, and for the first time in a long time, Greg wanted it for himself, too. He wanted to be better, do better, do the right thing, and that seemed far away and distant, and strangely unreal. It felt like some kind of fantasy, the ones he'd always had when he was a teenager and the lights were out on the good nights when his dad didn't come home drunk and pissed off. That off on a distant planet there was a version of him that was better and functioned and had a great life and a great job and everything just went right for him.

It was nice that a little of the fantasy was sort of coming true, even in a weird way. It was better than nothing, way better. Lying in bed with Gil was... Amazing.

Gil shifted a little, and stretched one arm lazily, rolling the faintest bit towards Greg. It made him hold his breath a little because he didn't want to move too much, make Gil hurt. The ache in his own body was fairly constant, and the urge to get up and find pain medication, any pain medication, was really kind of phenomenal.

Gil, though. Gil. It kept him from entertaining too deeply the idea of tossing back a half a bottle of something. Gil's eyelashes fluttered a little, and he gave a faint stretch before his eyes opened. "Hey."

"Hi," Greg murmured, resting his head against the crook of his arm as he slowly turned in Gil's direction. "How're you feeling?"

"My foot's asleep." Gil smiled, though, and slid his hand over to touch Greg's face gently. "We slept past pill-time."

Oh, that felt wonderful. Greg opened his mouth, lightly kissed the pads of Gil's fingers. "Mmm. I know. There are worse things."

"You must be hurting." Hurting. Back and stomach and maybe even his mind a little. He'd gone through withdrawal in the hospital, sure, but he was going to need more than that to kick it. Particularly when he had whole prescription bottles just for himself.

"Won't kill me." Not now, not since they'd taken him off of the drugs slow and steady even if they'd sent it home. He wanted so badly to be good for Gil. So badly. Greg smiled. "Want me to make pancakes? We could have them. They'd be good."

"Only if I can help?" That would require moving, and Greg wasn't really sure either of them should be moving much.

On the other hand, pancakes.

"Sure. I saw blueberries in the fridge," he noted. "We could add those. Make some compote. It'd be easy enough."

Gil eyed him with a faintly dubious gleam in his eye, and then he started to nod. "Okay. But pills first, then pancakes." At least if standing up and moving a lot made him hurt, he'd have relief pretty soon once the drugs got into his system.

He'd never been so weirdly reluctant to feel better in his life. Maybe it was just that Gil wanted him to get better. Probably it was that, because Greg had never really been able to want it for himself. "Gil..."

"Mmm?" Gil shifted a little, not sitting up but moving a little closer to Greg. His fingers lingered on Greg's cheek, sliding back a little to play with his hair.

"I think you should hide them." The medications, and he knew that Gil would know what he meant by that. "So I can't find them."

There was something in Gil's eyes. Not unhappiness, but maybe... resolve. Greg wasn't sure what it was, but it was there and Gil nodded. Maybe if one of them had resolve, it would work all right. "Okay. If that's what you want."

Greg couldn't help the wry smile that made its way across his face. "Not so much, no, but..." But. It was better if Gil hid it. He would be less tempted or at least less likely to take his and Gil's, too.

"I know. I have no idea if this is the right way to do it or not, but..." But. But it was the way that Greg thought seemed best. Keep him cold turkey, and when Gil was coherent enough to work out some kind of therapy for him, then they'd do that. Maybe it'd work out with that extra help. Maybe he wouldn't actually have to go into rehab at all, maybe he could just see somebody outpatient and it would be less expensive, and less of a draw on Gil's resources. Something. Anything.

"Tylenol." Yeah, like that had ever helped. "Let's try that."

The edge of Gil's mouth twitched slightly as he started to sit up. "Greg. Your stomach is still healing, and your doctor has actual prescriptions planned out for you."

That was disappointing to hear. "So dole them out to me," Greg requested. "Don't let me know where they are."

It was hard to guess why Gil was hesitating like that. He seemed guilty, like he felt bad for doing it or didn't want to force his will on Greg's life, but really, what kind of life had he been living? "Okay. I'll be back, then."

"Okay." And Greg could smile about that, he really could. Just a little, anyway. "And I'll make the pancakes," he promised. Gil shouldn't have to be the one getting out of bed. Greg had been getting well longer than he had. On the other hand... Well. Class three narcotics.

Greg knew what he'd do for class three narcotics. He knew what he'd done in the past for it, and there was a good chance he'd do it once more if he allowed himself to slip like that again. At the hospital they'd been giving him negligible amounts of it, anyway, barely enough that he could function on. Maybe they'd be doing that again.

Maybe Gil would keep a very careful eye on him so that he couldn't do any of those things again. He watched Gil tug on a robe, and sighed, curling on his side slowly. "Call if you need me," Greg murmured.

"I will. Just rest for a little while longer." Doze, conserve energy so they could make breakfast and then go back to sleeping again. Convalescence sucked.

Gil tied the robe loosely, and waddled towards the bathroom. It made Greg want to laugh, just a little. Partly, it was because of the waddle, yes. Mostly, it was because he was happy, and it just felt strange. Happiness like that was strange, foreign to him, and he just... He could learn to live with it, if he was honest with himself. As much as he felt like he was leeching off of Gil's generosity, he could live like a kept boy for a couple of years. Get better, try to get back into school after the holidays...

He could hear the bathroom tap running. It made him need to pee, right then, so he slowly shifted onto his back and worked to roll out of Gil's bed. It was nice, with big, high mattresses, and when he sat up, his feet just touched the floor. Greg stretched a little, and it felt good, just good enough, so he slid out of the bed and moved slowly towards the bathroom.

Gil was standing there in front of the cabinet, with an arrangement of little bottles in front of them. Some of them were being rinsed down the sink, and he was wetting the labels. "Old migraine medications," he half-explained when he heard Greg coming. "Figured since I'm in here, it needs to go."

"Probably," Greg admitted, mouth curling a little. Yeah. He'd get into those, given half a chance. Especially when the pain got worse, and that was kind of inevitable. "I have to pee. I'm not shy but...." But if Gil was, well.

Gil fixed his eyes ahead of him towards the medicine cabinet. "Would you prefer I leave, or just not peek?" He didn't sound offended, or bothered, just smiled slightly as he kept running the little piddle stream of water.

"It's okay with me even if you do," Greg admitted. "I just don't want to embarrass you, exactly." He wandered to the toilet and tugged at the ties of his pajama bottoms, soft cotton ones that Gil had brought him when he'd first gotten transferred to a regular floor. Gil had said he wanted Greg to be comfortable, and they sat low enough on his hips that they didn't rub any of his injuries, didn't twist over healing skin. His stomach looked like someone had put icing into a blender, whipped it, and drizzled the excess over the top in weird crisscross lines that puckered up.

Clearly the psychopath who'd given them to him wasn't an artsy sort.

"You're not going to embarrass me. Embarrassing is working a crime scene when hazmat has to be called in, and being stripped in front of your equally naked female subordinate." Gil's eyes slid to look at his face for a moment.

There was no way to stop the grin that snuck over Greg's face. "Well, somehow I don't think you actually have anything physical to be embarrassed about." More like he knew. Hospital gowns didn't hide much, and Greg had always known that Gil dressed to the left. It was obvious.

The faint tinkle of urine sounded in addition to the water from the sink and, oh, wow, that felt good. It felt good to be standing and not to have a hose shoved up his wang, and being in a real bathroom again made all the difference in the world. There was a little gunk stuck in the grout around the edge of the sink, but it was pretty clean. Gil always kept a vaguely clean, cluttered place.

"Have you met Sara yet?"

"I don't think so," Greg admitted. "I think I've met pretty much everybody else by now." Nick, who blushed when he saw Greg; Catherine, who was scary; Warrick, who was nice; Jim, who was funny. That summed up most of the people Gil talked about, he was pretty sure.

"Sara was working another murder while all of this was... going on." Gil picked up another bottle, glanced at the date, and then started to shake piles out down the sink. "She's been my protégé for a while. She's a good CSI."

"She'd have to be." Greg shook and waited a moment before tucking himself back in and tying the pants low on his hips. "After all, you're the best. I'm pretty sure everybody's stopped to tell me that at least once."

Or twice. Everyone said it, and it made Greg wonder if Gil had a little cult of Gil-Worshippers at work. It seemed like that, and when he said it, Gil seemed to pause, thinking about it. "I try to do my best at work. I don't usually get tangled up with personal interests in cases, so I think this..." This, Greg being gutted, and Will dying and Ian trying to kill himself, and Darius just totally fucking randomly dead and it was all sort of soul-sucking if Greg thought about it for very long.

Particularly since he was missing bits of organs. Gil didn't finish his sentence.

"This?" Greg asked him, watching all of the pills go bye-bye in a way that really made him sad. "Me, you mean. I surprised them. Or, well, you surprised them by knowing me?"

"Both. I surprised them by knowing anyone outside of work." Gil's eyebrows went up slightly as he presented Greg with three pills. One was the antibiotic, there was one more, and a pain pill.

Greg was hoping that smaller size meant a bigger kick. He was pretty sure that wasn't exactly the case, but what the hell. A guy could hope. "Thank you." Because even a little something was good, and he was starting to sweat, literally. It wasn't as bad as it had been in the hospital, but three weeks of being weaned off of narcotics there had to make things easier. "I don't know why they'd be surprised," he said, putting all three in his mouth and dry swallowing them. "You're interesting. I'm more surprised at who you don't know than who you do."

Gil seemed to know probably every museum person, store owner, school administrator, and casino boss in Vegas. Knowing didn't mean that they got along well, but it was certainly something. "You're not allowed to play recent musical pop culture games with me," Gil noted, taking his own little pills. "I lost track of music sometime in the eighties."

"Mullets. Hair bands. The Nelson twins," Greg teased, laughing a little. He kind of wanted to brush his teeth, but then they'd just have to brush again after breakfast.

"The what twins?" It was hard to tell if Gil as joking or not as he turned off the water, pills sufficiently rinsed away. Possibly. Greg could probably pull out the trap and lick it if he were that desperate. "So, pancakes?"

"With berries," Greg agreed, because he knew he'd dropped more weight than was good for him or any three other people. He needed to try and put some of it back on before he blew away.

"You looked through the fridge more than I thought you had." Gil leaned in for a second, kissed Greg's temple, and then stepped back. "I think there were strawberries, but I'm not sure anymore. They could have been some hallucination-warped grapes."

"There were blueberries." Greg smiled, feeling fumbling and shy, and that was really kind of stupid. A kiss like that wasn't anything that ought to make him feel silly and young. "There might have been strawberries, too, though, so let's go check." He held out his hand, and Gil took it. Gil's fingers were a little damp and heated, comfortable when they grasped Greg's fingers.

Gil didn't even care that Greg hadn't washed his hands first. "They must have given me better drugs yesterday than I thought." Gil was smiling again, and it was enough to make Greg feel even shyer and more desperate not to screw things up. It was all he could do to follow Gil out of the bathroom and into the hallway. "How's your stomach feeling this morning?"

"Okay." Everything was tender but tender was all right, and they had said he could have soft foods, things like scrambled eggs. Pancakes were soft, especially if they used berries and he smushed them up, so it would be all right. "Nothing hurts, it's all just kind of sore. In a not-bad way. How are you?"

"Sore," Gil agreed. His apartment was nice and tidy, at least on the floors, so there wasn't anything that Greg was going to trip on while they entered the kitchen slash dining room slash living room.

It made for handy fridge raiding. "And the place where she stabbed me itches. I'd forgotten that even big injuries itch when they heal."

"I'm really sorry." He was, so desperately sorry, his mouth twitching downward helplessly. "I wish... I wish anything except that she had managed to do that to you," Greg admitted.

"Greg, she was going to stab you again. Even if her stabbing me only delayed her a little, it was worth it." Gil tugged lightly at his hand as they entered the kitchen. "I wanted to protect you."

That made him feel good all over, responsive and happy and that was really just kind of wrong. It had resulted in Gil getting hurt. Still, Greg stopped and tugged back, pulling Gil to him and wrapping his arms around him gently, carefully, afraid Gil might push him away. "I wish I was a better person for you."

Gil went stiff for a moment, not quite the reaction Greg was expecting, and then he moved a hand to rest low on Greg's back. "You're a good person, Greg. You don't have to change anything for me."

"Not change." Exactly. "Just, be better. So that you wouldn't have to go through your medicine cabinet or... or hide things." And God, Gil made it so easy, so easy to lay his head on that strong shoulder.

"If you want to try to stop, I'll help you. But I'm not going to make you, and it's..." It was something. It was something Gil couldn't quite articulate without thinking for a moment. Pills and no breakfast were probably conspiring against him. Against both of them. "I'm not going to kick you out if something happens and you slip up."

"I don't want to slip up," Greg admitted against his shoulder. It felt good, everything soft and warm and just right. "I haven't wanted something like that in a long time."

"Then I'll help you. But... if you do. It's okay." No _one strike and you're out_ kind of deal, Greg guessed. Gil would probably let him backslide entirely if he wanted to, but he'd be unhappy. He'd be worried, and Greg didn't want to worry him like that. Not ever.

He lifted his head, and there wasn't any stopping it, no way to keep from doing it. His mouth met Gil's, soft and sweet and just right, the way it should be, and God. God. If ever there had been incentive to get himself straight, it had to be that; Gil smiling at him when he pulled back a little, and a gentle squeeze around his waist. "Okay? Let's start breakfast. You need to eat."

"I am kind of skinny," Greg admitted sheepishly. They'd given him a variety of drugs, glucose, so many things that should have helped, but the withdrawal... Well. It just went like that. "I'll make the pancake batter if you want."

"Then I'll clean the berries." Equal division of labor, or something like it. Gil didn't ask how Greg knew to cook, just accepted that he did it well and nothing would catch fire.

That was the thing about Gil, really. He was full of acceptance, full of all the good things anybody could ever want, and Greg knew that if he messed that up, he didn't deserve any other chances. No matter what Gil said, he knew.

He was determined to make the best of it.

~*~*~*~

There was a familiar peace that came with death.

It reminded him a lot of that crime scene where Greg had been a blood pool contribution and the other young man's eyes had been closed lightly. His shirt collar was up high, covering the wound to his neck, Gil supposed.

He didn't at all remind Gil in death the way he'd seemed in life. The way he'd seemed just the last time he'd seen him, which really hadn't been that long ago. Time was like that, though. It dragged by in some places and moved at light speed in others, and it had been shifting by incredibly fast since he'd last seen those wide dark eyes open and alive.

Maybe they'd never really been alive at all, he supposed. Maybe it had just been the drugs, legal and illegal, impossible to leech them out of a system so long accustomed to running on them.

Beside him, Jim sighed and laid a hand on his upper arm in sympathy. "You did your best."

"I think you did more," Gil noted quietly, turning his head a little. Jim had been the one to make sure Ian ended up in care and not dumped back on the streets.

Not that it had done any long-term good.

"Yeah, well." Jim shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, dropping his head a little. Greg was still near the casket, whispering things into it in a way that might have been creepy if there'd been anybody there to pay attention. They were pretty much the sum total of things, though.

Warrick had come by earlier, and Sara had dropped in for a few minutes. Even Ian's cousin Dorothy had come by, offered to help pay for the burial. Gil had told her that she wouldn't be paying him for it, but Greg. Greg had been working on building up his savings for the past year or so, and they'd had a fairly interesting argument about Gil not being allowed, according to Greg, to dip into his own savings to bury Ian. He'd been willing to do it, but...

But Gil was oddly glad that he and Greg could argue. Mostly over money; Greg was stubborn and he didn't like to feel that he was living off of Gil, while Gil was trying to point out that he was working and he was working to a degree and he should be able to spend what he earned how he liked, and that, well. That had been when Greg had won the argument, actually, because he wanted to bury Ian. Bury him nicely, beside his brother, and get them headstones. So Gil had prodded at Randy Gesek to make it a little more realistic for Greg so he could do that.

It had worked. On the other hand, Gesek had been looking at him kind of funny since the afternoon he'd walked in and demanded to see a corpse's testicles, so it was entirely possible that the whole thing had traumatized the man for life.

He fervently hoped so.

Greg stood up and leaned over, brushing his lips across Ian's cheek. Desert Haven had actually done a good job. He didn't look like he'd managed to stab himself to death with the sharpened end of his toothbrush.

Gil watched the motion. Greg had visited Ian every other week, and Ian had sometimes recognized him and sometimes he'd asked about Will. Didn't want to believe that Will was dead. It was just quietly sad. The same way that Ian had died, desperate not to live anymore in one of his more lucid moments. Greg had been expecting it for years, had murmured quiet words about it in bed with Gil at night. If Greg's life had been fucked up, Will and Ian's had resembled something out of a V.C. Andrews novel. The one bright spot had been the adopted elder brother who had loved them in ways that were so distinctly wrong Gil didn't even have words for it.

"I think I'm ready," Greg sighed as he moved to stand before Gil and Jim. He limped a little. Once Gil had gotten insurance for him, he'd had disc replacement surgery for the damaged disc in his back. It hadn't helped the nerve, but it had lessened the pain some, and that had helped in other ways. It made it easier for Greg to function. Made it easier for him to sit in a chair and do work and take notes. Life with less pain was bearable, and minimal drugs. There were things with botox that were being discussed, and Gil kept an eye out for pain control measures. He always had an eye out for Greg's comfort. Padded chairs, massages and heating pads and gel packs in the freezer.

"To go?" Gil asked, looking from Jim over to Greg. The service had been non-denominational. The boys hadn't had a religion other than their brother. He'd met a Catholic priest on a case once who had been willing to say words over them and lay them to rest. He was a good man even if Gil had laid religion to the side and chosen science as his preference. He hadn't asked for anything to do it, and the words he'd chosen had been kind.

"Yeah." Greg nodded. "They're just going to..." He shrugged. They were going to put Ian in the ground, Gil knew, and there was no reason to stay and suffer that.

"Okay. Jim? Thanks for coming." Gil leaned forwards a little, reached to shake Jim's hand. He was a good friend. Catherine had been called in, and Nick was covering someone's shift. Warrick was hovering, and Gil wanted to thank him, too, and Sara standing beside him.

He had good friends. They had good friends.

"Yeah, well. You know, I, uh. I felt bad for the kid." Jim nodded. "I'm sorry he died." That, he directed mostly at Greg, who gave him that bright smile despite everything. That was Greg, though. It was part of what Gil loved about him, that ability to keep smiling even when disaster rained down on his head.

"Me, too," Greg answered. "But, you know. Whatever people believe... I can't help believing that in the long run at least he's not as miserable." Dead was probably better than screaming for his brothers when the drugs wore off, anyway.

"Yeah." Jim's voice sounded a little rough. He hadn't heard from Ellie in at least a year and Gil knew how much that made him hurt. Knew that was why he'd tried to help Ian. "I'll see you guys. Need to get some sleep."

"Okay." Gil twisted and glanced at Warrick and Sara. He needed to thank them, too, and he wandered away a bit. Greg wasn't always stuck to his side anymore, and that was good. He was his own person, and that made Gil happy. They had a relationship. They didn't spend every waking minute together, and Greg had finally learned that it was okay to be who he was. It was okay to hurt, and okay to be different. He'd probably be in therapy for the rest of his life, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"Griss." Warrick nodded to him, shifting out of the pale spring light and into the faint shade of the funeral canopy overhead. He was still a little on the thin side. The divorce had taken a lot out of him. He'd held on longer than Gil had really thought he would.

Longer than Gil would have. "I wanted to thank you for coming. Both of you." Gil glanced to Sara, and it wasn't hard to find a smile for her. Her eyes moved a little. The man with the funeral home was closing the casket lid when Gil turned to follow her gaze.

"Well," she said softly. A faint breeze kicked up, sending strands of hair flying around her face. Sara didn't really have to say anything more. Gil knew enough about her history to know what she was thinking when she looked at the casket, when she saw Greg. There but for the grace of God. "Hey, I'm gonna go..." Say something to Greg, at a guess.

"Sure." Sure. Gil was glad that they talked, connected on some level. Geeky things and science, and it made Gil happy to see. She walked off towards Greg, and Gil lifted his eyebrows at Warrick. "How're you doing?"

"Been worse." Warrick shrugged and then gave Gil one of those smiles, the ones that said he probably hadn't been that much worse, all things considered. "And, hey. It could always be a hell of a lot worse, you know?" Dead, like Will and Ian, like Greg could have been if things hadn't changed, if Gil hadn't started to try to do the right thing. The hard thing.

The hard thing was full of ups and downs and fights and that one night where Greg had left and Gil had worried and waited and found out that Greg had blown a tire on a beer bottle in the road just a mile down. Stupid hard, but Gil savored it. It was worth it to come home and have Greg teach him his class material over dinner/breakfast before they went to bed.

The sex was great. Had been for Warrick, too, apparently, and Catherine, as well, but that wasn't a reason to hold on. Nothing like hands held in the dark, and whispers before sleep, waking up to blueberry pancakes and coffee, hot still-sleepy kisses. There was a lot to be said for great sex, even good sex, but in the end, sex wasn't enough. Sex wasn't coffee shop laughter or chance meetings or making the hard decisions out of bloody-minded determination to make things work.

Maybe their relationship was bizarre. Gil didn't care. It was fun and good, and that was the point of life. "When's it official?"

"Last court date's next week." Warrick gave a faint grimace, squinting up at the afternoon sun for a moment. "At least we didn't have kids to fight over." Not like Catherine.

Warrick liked kids. "I'm sorry, Warrick. If you want time afterwards to..." Move out? But no, he'd done that months ago. He'd shacked up with Nick for a month while he'd looked for an apartment, and Gil had kept some of Warrick's stereo equipment for him until he'd moved. "I don't know."

"Don't worry about it." Warrick gave him that halfhearted smile he'd started wearing when everything had gone to hell. "I got it under control. Got that day off and the day after it, already, so..." So, yeah. Time to get drunk and then sober up again if that was what he wanted.

"If you need more time, just call in." He was still Warrick's supervisor, and he'd been trying harder to be sympathetic towards all of them, particularly after the support he'd been given after what had happened to him and Greg. It took effort, but he tried.

Effort had to count for something.

"No problem. I will. Promise." Warrick nodded, squinted up again as if he was looking for something, then turned his head a little. "Hey, Sara. Time to go if you want to catch that movie you were talking about."

Oh.

"I'll see you later," he heard Greg say, Sara murmuring something to him as they parted.

Huh. He still felt a little dumbfounded, but they were leaving together, and that was interesting. That was enough to leave Gil standing there smiling and trying to process that while he twisted a little. Greg was limping up towards him.

"Ready to go home?" he asked, mouth curled upwards in a sly smile that said he had known, that he knew, and he thought it was cute that Gil didn't.

"I'm driving." Gil had driven over, but he'd also kept hold of the keys because Greg had been nervous and tired and the funeral had eased it. "Do you want to go to a movie?"

"Only if you make out with me in the back row," Greg murmured, and then he leaned over and kissed Gil's cheek in the weak not-quite-spring yet sunlight. "But we could do that at home, even if the popcorn's not quite as good."

"It's usually burnt, but just as artificial," Gil agreed. It was a Friday, Greg had taken the night off, and Gil almost always had the night off then. It was easier to stay up and just go to bed early the next day than it was to try to stick to the schedule of sleep that they'd already been awake through.

"C'mon. I'll use the air popper," Greg offered. "I even have some of that cheesy salt stuff you like." That stuff was death to his blood pressure, or it would be. Still. It was good, and if Greg was offering....

If Greg was offering, then Gil was taking. "But what movie?" They started to wander off from the grave site so Greg didn't have to see his friend disappearing into the ground. It was permanent, it was the end, and he knew that Greg was probably going to have nightmares unless he kept him up long enough and they watched something sufficiently silly enough.

"How does _Clue_ sound?" Tim Curry, Madeline Kahn, Lee Ving, and all the laughs a guy could hope for. Popcorn, and Greg snuggled against him on the couch.

It sounded pretty good.

Life _was_ pretty good. Greg had a thirty-five or forty hour a week job that he liked. He was working on a degree with evening classes twice a week to get a degree in computer science.

Computers, Greg had told him, didn't have anything he could accidentally huff or be tempted by. If he started trying to eat motherboard capacitors, they had more than a little problem on their hands.

Gil leaned a little and snagged Greg's hand in his. "I promise not to discuss the evidence trail."

"Good." Greg let his fingers twine with Gil's, and he gave him a slow, sweet look that let him know he might even get chocolate chip cookies to go with his popcorn if he was lucky.

Maybe even something else.

"Let's go."


End file.
